Long way home
by beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: John McGarrett's death is a horrendous blow to Steve, no explanations needed. But with his and Catherine's deep involvement in the case revolving around Anton Hesse, they start to believe that maybe the murder of his father wasn't just purely hinged on revenge. Possible hidden motives are questioned, risks are heightened, and ghosts of their pasts slink back to haunt them.
1. Prologue

_I want to thank my amazing beta, Trish, for investing her time and mind on this work, helping me make it better. You are truly great! _

_Maureen, my queen of inspiration :) probably would never even try writing a multichapter fic, if it weren't for you, so thank you. I hope this story won't disappoint you._

_To the readers - it could be classified as a "what if" story, but I am more into calling it a slight AU considering that I changed a few things, but the main plot stays the same. The current events of the plot will be interlaced with flashbacks to the past. _

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****Multiple Threat Alert Center******  
******U.S. Naval Forces Central Command ******  
******Manama, Bahrain******  
******September, 2010****

The heavy, regular sound of marching is not uncommon within these pastel walls. The footsteps always echo in the same steady rhythm, even with dozens of sailors walking in different directions through the recently refurbished Naval Support Activity building. The familiar tempo, somehow always resounding in the background of everyday work, often works as a steadying point. Yet, as she follows the stocky Petty Officer Delgado down the corridor in the less crowded, and heavily guarded wing, she feels her heart pounding in sync with their loud steps.

Being called in by her own CO rarely gets her blood rushing and pulse quick, but an unexpected command to report to the MTAC has never happened before.

Catherine has been in the Center exactly two times in the past ten months since her transfer to Bahrain, both being a necessity of her work. They had both been scheduled in advance, and approved by a vastly high chain of command, for the purposes of assembling and crossing data for an ongoing operation. Being pulled away from her work by a Petty Officer stating that the Captain himself requests her presence in MTAC immediately, however, is definitely a first time occurrence. One that raced her heart for a second as she stood to attention, the gears in her mind processing all the possible reasons behind that command.

The walk from her station takes less than five minutes, but the time seems to stretch, prodding her mind with options. She keeps breathing steadily, the regular, shallow intakes of breath slowing her heart rate and letting her regain full control over her nervously trembling body.

There's not a chance that any aspect of her work might be questioned - she pays attention to details and protocol. Though, admittedly, there are a few stains on her impeccable resume, minor regulation breaks and acts conducted under the radar. A part of her instinctively raises the fear of it being discovered, but the logical part of her mind assures her that wouldn't be the way to handle it.

No, there is definitely something else at stake.

As they approach the two-winged, code-secured door, two guards instinctively tense, briefly glancing at them. Recognizing the officer escorting Catherine, they shift their gaze back. Petty Officer Delgado quickly taps the code into the panel and the doors open with a swish.

Contrary to many beliefs, the Multiple Threat Alert Center is not an enormous room, often portrayed as a resemblance of an academic auditorium combined with NASA's headquarters. Granted, it is quite spacious, but only with a few people working in it. One of the walls consists of screens, like big glass tiles joined in one surface, usually displaying a geographical profile map with pulled up files of currently conducted missions. Catherine's gaze slides along the long, black counter on the left, with a set of computers, exactly four people working on them, their fingers scrambling over the keyboards.

Her eyes shift towards two men directly opposite the entrance, under the row of clocks displaying different hours in time zones all around the globe. Captain Hasting's presence is not surprising, he is said to be visiting MTAC regularly, persistent on being up to date with every detail, but the dress blues he's wearing suggest he's been - just like Catherine - unexpectedly pulled from his occupation, probably some official meeting.

And this is a detail indicating the situation that brought them both to this place is serious, making Catherine's palms sweat as the natural fear creeps in.

Petty Officer Delgado nods shortly, leaving her standing on the spot, while he strides towards the Captain and Lieutenant, with whom he speaks. Their gazes shift up to glance at her briefly, both quickly returning to their previous conversation. Catherine knows the protocol, so she stays in the exact same spot, waiting to be approached or summoned.

She quickly gives up the attempt to read the Captain's body language in hope of getting any hint from the way his rigid body reacts to the Lieutenant's report. As far as she knows, they might not even talk about anything that involves her anyhow. Instead, she slightly turns her head, looking at the wall of screens.

The combined glass tiles display a satellite image of what seems to be a foreign area, the main focus the remains of a burning convoy. Splashes of dark green suggest an open, though secluded, space, a valley with the wilderness around and an outline of hills in the background. Burnt pieces of vehicles are scattered across the road, along with parts of military equipment. For someone who has seen the aftermath of bombs exploding, fallen soldiers' bodies and clearly recognisable - and Catherine, unfortunately, has seen it before. There's also an upturned transportation truck on the side of the road, a chain of bodies fallen all around it, probably killed while protecting whatever, or whoever, was inside of it.

The whole image is suddenly disturbed, when a set of three screens on the leftmost side black out, only to, within a few seconds, upload an enlarged personal file. A combination of pictures and reports, which Catherine knows all too well, makes her heart stop in its rhythm.

The unhidden smirk on the cold, scrawny face of Anton Hesse, brings back a flash of memory, renewing the bitter, metallic taste in her mouth and the numbing pain.

Eyes drifting back and forth between Hesse's photo and the ongoing scene of the attacked convoy, she notices a silhouette still moving close to one of the bodies.

Can it be Hesse himself? Is he the one responsible for the attack on military transport? If so, then why isn't he retreating?

Catherine's train of thoughts stops abruptly as she notices a tall figure approaching her, from the corner of her eye. The Captain's body is rather lanky, still holding the remains of illness he fought with recently. But his eyes are still bright and attentive, his moves energetic and sharp, distinctive for most of military men. Standing to attention, she stares ahead, saluting him. "At ease," something in his tone increases her worry and she clenches her hands harder, blunt fingernails digging into the insides of her palms.

Not daring to avert her gaze, though it tempts her to look at the satellite image to check on that one survivor, Catherine keeps her eyes fixed on a far point. Looking up at the man before her, when he speaks to her directly, in a tone much softer, but filled with compassion.

The Captain's eyes bore into hers as he says, "Lieutenant McGarrett, there's been a tragic incident."


	2. Chapter 1

****United States Fleet Activities ******  
******Yokosuka, Japan,******  
******September, 2010****

Compared to the loud and packed twelve-hour-long flight, or even to the semi-quiet MTAC in Bahrain, this place is like a pit of dead silence. The sterile white walls are splashed with big spots of sunlight falling through the windows. There is only one door at the end of the hall, but Catherine can't bring herself to even go close to it. Her body is curled up on the floor, arms around her bent legs as she leans her head on the wall with a sigh, closing her eyes. Flecks of light dance on her skin, but she can't feel the warmth of the sun through the windows, fear and sadness filling her with too much cold, suppressing everything into numbness. The long corridor, which seems to have no end, overwhelms her petite figure, which appears to be like that of a tiny, fragile doll, about to crumble.

But she can't, not yet anyway. The streams of tears she shed on the flight here couldn't lull her to sleep, as all of the emotions are still bottled up, straining each neuron in her fatigued body. Guarding herself is not really Catherine's choice of facing and dealing with things - she prefers a worked out technique of getting it all out of her system, to regain rags of control.

This situation is different though, the aching wound that death caused cutting deeper with each thought about what __he __must be going through.

And her heart seems to be falling into pieces for both of them.

The echo of the Captain's words still resounds in her head, a dull, empty tone clenching at her heart over and over again. There's a part of her that is still fighting against accepting that... John McGarrett is dead.

A man who had become her family, who was more than just a father-in-law. He was a friend. One with whom she shared all those smiles upon his son's stubborn face; who fiercely debated with her the primacy of the Redskins over the Dallas Cowboys; the one who called her out of nowhere to ask for her coconut cookie recipe.

The randomness of memories coming back to her at that moment irritates her, as none of them are distinctively meaningful, though God knows they have had a few of those. It is, instead, just a chain of the simplest flashes, none giving the full picture and coming even a tiny bit close to mirroring her depth of feeling, a feeling like a part of her heart was being ripped out.

Appreciating small moments and keeping in touch with shards of everyday reality hold a great power, Catherine knows, especially being in the Navy, when every day has the potential to bring about a downward spiral. It builds stability, belonging, and the feeling of having a safe shore to return to at some point, be it the end of the day, the week, or several years. Yet, there is a voice that demands the remembrance of how great John has been, to praise more than just the delicious taste of his lime-honey chicken served with a broad smile on the lanai behind his house.

Cath's distress goes beyond the frames of losing a family member, in the tragic brutality of a complicated past that got back to haunt them. It also surges to the person who is somewhere within these walls, forced to brace himself instead of being able to mourn.

The routines and rules are not only for bureaucracy, they're also part of a tactic to provide at least a small opportunity to refocus, to unburden the body and mind of a troubled soldier. It's not only to serve for long term efficiency, but also as a form of stability to which one can hold on, for the first hours and days after a tragedy.

Yet, Catherine would love nothing more than to get him out of the briefing room and into her arms, trying to give him a feeling of safety and support, and definitely not expecting him to get a grip. They have found each other's embrace calming more than once, not only with the usual distress of their jobs. Some experiences turn their hearts inside out, shattering them to pieces, and the presence of one another appeared to be the only thing which grounded them. With the flash of Anton Hesse's face, the memory of the most gruesome nightmare comes back to her head, the one that only Steve's body protected her from.

Before her thoughts spiral down the hellish hole of fear and guilt, only adding to the grief of the current situation, the overwhelming silence is finally broken by the sound of an opening door.

She's up on her feet in an instant, eyes glued to the man exiting the room on the far end.

But it's not the silhouette she wants to see right now and an annoyed, impatient sigh escapes her lips, but it's a familiar posture, which she recognizes immediately, standing to full attention.

He dismisses her with a short wave of a hand, not even aiming for regulatory formalities before he strides to her and embraces her in a comforting hug. "I'm so sorry, Catherine," he holds her for a second more and pulls back, hands still resting on her shoulders, squeezing gently, "John was a great friend."

"Thanks, Joe," her voice is hoarse, barely audible. She realizes it's the first time she has spoken since reporting over thirty hours ago to the MTAC, hours of crying and suppressed sobbing having dried her throat to the point where she can only whisper helplessly.

Clearing her throat a few times, Cath motions towards the door and manages to ask in a more audible tone, "Is he-?"

"He'll be out in a few minutes," Joe offers a small, faint smile, which he is sure will not help to ease her anxiety, nor would it lessen her worry for Steve, even if he had mastered the most convincing, bright grin. Neither is he able to do that, being shaken by the situation himself. He has known them long enough to know that nothing can bring actual relief until they can see each other. "Only formalities," he assures her, "I left early, 'cause I want to arrange a flight to Oahu for the two of you."

"No," Catherine shakes her head, eyes shifting to the door, looking at it longingly, before drifting back to Commander White's face, "Just for him."

"What?" Clear confusion displays on his face - it is very unlike Catherine to retreat, especially from a personal __assignment __of supporting her loved ones.

"I know my husband, Joe," she sighs, rubbing her face with both of her hands, but unfortunately it doesn't scrub away the frustration, "Right now there are __two __cases on his mind. His dad, and Freddie," the way she looks back at him leaves no room for arguing with her determination, "He can't deal with both at the same time, so I will stay with Freddie, until Kelly flies in. Then meet Steve in Hawaii."

"Understood," he nods shortly and turns his head, gaze locking on the door, "I will be there for the funeral, whenever it'll be possible to organize it. Now, excuse me, but I really want to schedule a flight for him. The sooner the better, knowing his low patience level."

"Yeah," Cath's eyes follow, staring at the same exact spot, wishing that the door would finally open, "I doubt he'll be able to sit and process. Not now. He needs answers first," shaking her head, she returns her focus to Joe, "Anyway, thank you."

"Not a problem," Joe leans over to hug her one more time, "See you soon, Catherine. Be strong, for both of you." With one last squeeze he walks away.

As he strides down the corridor, the echo of his boots rumbling rhythmically, leaving Catherine in a frozen stance, her whispered, delayed response merely sounds in her own ears, "I always am." She tries, which never comes easy, considering both their jobs, not only his assignments, but hers as well. But it's worth it, worth everything. Somehow the power of support in their dynamic shifts involuntarily - depending on the situation and the time, one of them taking the role of being the solid one, sensing the other's need to crumble into pieces. Granted, there were moments when stubbornness made them both rigid at the same time, but they've learned to respect that it's something they both need sometimes, too.

When, minutes later, the door opens and __finally __that awaited figure appears, Catherine knows she will have to be the strong one. Not in that exact second, with Steve's defense mechanisms still high and his tendency to push the feelings away, until the right moment to express them comes. Maybe it will be after John's funeral, or the night before it, or even a month afterwards, but she's ready to shelter him within her own arms.

Steve's body is tensed, but his steps are slow and slightly wobbly, like he has just come back from a twenty-kilometre march with full gear on. His gaze casted down on the floor, until he notices boots and he lifts his eyes up.

Seeing her is not really a surprise, but a part of him always takes her presence as something unexpected, like he is still stuck in a state of disbelief that he is lucky enough to have met her, to be loved by her. A faint, but powerful sparkle of light in the sudden darkness that tries to consume him.

Her body crashes into his, arms wrapping tightly around him, fingers gripping at his BDUs. Her soft voice trembles with his name, the sound muffled on his shoulder, where she presses her head. The way she leans into him seems to be a search for support, but it's actually the opposite - she pulls him in, bracing herself for him to lean on her fully, to crush into her with all of his pain.

"Steve," she cries quietly, however hard she tries to contain her tears, they spill momentarily when he wraps his arms around her, trustingly hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

His rigid body seemingly relaxes, but she knows it's not yet the state of letting his whole guard down, he still bottles everything inside. He stays quiet for a long moment, lips pressed to her sweaty skin as he presses himself to her petite body as close as possible. The tender touch of her fingertips combing through the curls of hair above the nape of his neck makes him shiver, tempting him to just let himself fall apart in her arms.

Closing his eyes, he inhales her familiar scent and slowly pulls back. "Ca-" he pauses abruptly at the sound of his own voice cracking helplessly. Tears prick the undersides of his eyelids, daring to probe the redness of his already tired eyes, and he lifts his gaze up, blinking the tears away.

"Catherine," her name finally falls from his lips, a pleading relief in a choked tone.

There's something in the sound of her name that brings instant calmness, which is why he loves saying it so often. Calling her, mentioning her full name in conversations, sometimes murmuring to himself, whenever darkness seems to be gloomier than usual, sending shivers down his spine as he listens and looks for any danger creeping in. It's a mere illusion, he knows, but as long as it helps him focus and keep moving on, he won't trade that technique for any other.

"I'm-" Cath shakes her head, tears streaming down her face, because ridiculously __stupid __as those words are, there is nothing else she can say in this moment, "I'm so sorry, Steve. So sorry."

He barely nods, gritting his teeth more tightly. The helplessness behind her words threatens to tear the last straw of hope he's holding on to - wishing for them to be able to keep strong through it, but the wound runs so deep it seems to shatter them both. And the worst is, he is not sure if he can protect her from it. Hand sneaking onto her neck, he pulls her closer once again, kissing her forehead as his thumb brushes gently on the inked skin on the back of her neck.

"Can we, uh," he glances around uncomfortably, the cold sterile walls evoking horrid thoughts of hospitals... and morgues. A thought he can't yet face, though he does everything to prepare himself for it. Wiping the tears from Cath's cheek, he tries to focus his gaze on her tired face, hoping for it to ground him.

"Can we go?" Steve's voice is quiet and hoarse as he asks, "Somewhere outside, please?"

"Of course," Catherine quickly straightens, reaching for his hand. In a flash she's ready to push everything aside, just to bring him an ounce of comfort, it's the least she can do. She bends to pick her duffel bag up, but Steve is quicker, throwing it over his shoulder while his other hand rests on the small of her back. That simple, gesture, that somehow is so natural for him, always makes her smile, though this time the corners of her mouth quickly fall down way too soon afterwards.

The fresh air, somehow soaked with a flowery scent as they sit down under a large cypress in the base's green area, pleasantly washes away the scent of sweat and oil they both have been smelling for the past long hours. Steve leans his back on the tree's trunk, closing his eyes as he takes a deep, calming breath. Sunlight streams through the green branches, but since he took that phone call everything seems to be greyish and lacklustre. And there's the chaos of sounds in the back of his head whenever he closes his eyes, a mix of Freddie's voice, his father's words and the echo of his own scream.

Cath's voice comes like a soft wave that disperses the havoc of sounds, "Freddie is fine."

Steve opens his eyes, their haunted look turning into a thankful one. Long ago he stopped trying to figure out how it is possible for someone to know him so well, knowing what to say, or when to say nothing. But he knows her well too, and it's easy to figure out that she tries to help him refocus, to make him realize not all hope is gone.

"They wouldn't tell me much," she sighs, opening the bag and withdrawing a slightly damaged package, "As I'm not his next-of-kin, but they will proceed with another surgery today - I think around now, actually."

Without a word Steve observes her moves, how her fingers are still trembling, but each gesture and grip is firm and not nervous. She opens the package, which as he suspected, contains basic provisions. "You should eat," she pushes a small goji bar into his hand and takes half a sandwich in her own. There's not a hint of question in her voice, if he even wants to eat, because she knows too well that he definitely does not, knows that his throat and stomach are tied in a knot. But he has to.

He unwraps the bar slowly, swallowing a few times as if to prepare his heavy stomach, hoping that the contents won't come back up right away. As he glances at Catherine, it looks like she prays for the same, munching slowly on the sandwich.

"Think one of the bullets went through his lung," Steve mumbles, before taking the first bite. Focusing on keeping it in his stomach and not throwing up at least keeps his thoughts away from the terrifying memory of seeing his friend's body pierced by bullets.

"Seems so," Cath nods her head, "But from what I've gathered, it looks like they will save his lung. Though, he might not be able to dive anymore."

She casts a quick glance at Steve, hoping the mention of his friend's probable disability to go back to SEALs won't add to Steve's long list of guilt and worry. Freddie had always wanted to become a SEAL, but it was never as deeply embroidered within him as it was for Steve.

"He will have a lot of other things to dive into," Steve's sudden snort, which is followed by a smile, surprises Cath and she looks at him questioningly. Swallowing another bite, he explains, "Bubba got married."

"Got __what__?!" Catherine almost chokes on her sandwich, quickly reaching for the canteen and washing it down.

"He and Kelly got married, like a week ago," he shakes his head with the same mixture of surprise and happiness as he had felt in the moment when Freddie had announced it to him for the first time, "She's pregnant."

Remembering that is bound to bring more burden later, thinking how Freddie almost got killed and would never have been able to even meet his baby, if the mission had gone even worse than it had.

For now, though, it provides a certain lightness, a streak of happiness and hope. If Cath's words come true, he will be all right and will soon be annoying Steve with complaints about his pregnant wife's cravings. And Steve feels like he will be most happy to listen to them.

Cath shakes her head, eyes dropping to the grass briefly as she mutters, "Wow." She takes another sip of water before looking up at him, "Well they owe us a wedding party. I'm going to tell Freddie that, they won't get off that easy."

"Yeah, and a stag party too," Steve squishes the colourful wrapper in his fist, not even noticing that he has eaten the whole thing without an onset of nausea, "Though, it probably won't be as epic as mine was," he winks at her.

"Finding a bunch of snoring, drunk SEALs in the living room was truly epic," her snort evokes a grin on his face, a flash of a second when everything else disappears as the happy memory fills his mind, "On the other hand, Sam cuddling my leg was definitely __something__."

They smile at each other for a moment, until the reality creeps back in, slowly erasing the levity. Danger and unknown have always been a part of their lives. However hard it is so often, neither of them regret anything, and definitely not the two most important things - the Navy, and each other. Sometimes, missions going awry, or a lack of information about the other one's whereabouts, aren't the trickiest of obstacles they have to face. Yet, they overcome them, fighting hard for each other, as it seems there is never anything more worth fighting for. Side by side they faced a few nightmares, but haven't been prepared for this one.

For a parent's death by the hands of someone who they were supposed to capture.

Catherine is the first to burst the faint bubble of distraction, clearing her throat, before she speaks, "Joe will arrange a flight for you to Oahu. I'm going to stay with Freddie, until Kelly comes."

"Thank you," he reaches for her hand that plays with the canteen cap, squeezing her fingers gently.

He has never been too good with expressing his feelings, many people wouldn't understand his need to be alone for a few days, especially after a tragedy like this one. Others always have the tendency to look at it from their perspective, taking his behaviour as an act of pushing away and shutting down. Granted, he did that sometimes, but never when it comes to Catherine. His body and mind just switch to a certain mode when he's with her, so easily stripping him of all the defence mechanisms, and right now he needs himself focused and solid for a few days more.

Entwining their fingers, Cath brings his hand up to her mouth, kissing it softly, "It's the least I can do."

"You do so much more, Cath," his fingers reach out to cup her face, a gesture into which she gladly leans, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, Steve's sure there's a new flash in them, a shimmer of a terrifying emotion, which she tries to blink away.

It's something different than grief and pain, a shadow which raises his worry, but he feels like it is not the time or space to be asking about it. Catherine's body language suggests that she tries, just like him, to suppress some emotions.

"I spoke to Freddie's dad," she says. It has never ceased to amaze him how much better she is at quickly changing subjects than he is, although everyone around thinks that it's his doing most of the time.

She continues, "He said Kelly will be here around 1900 tomorrow, so I should be on Oahu the day after. Maybe I'll even catch a night bird."

Steve pulls her close, until she's sitting beside him, half pressed to his body, head almost resting on his shoulder. "Never imagined the next time I'd be able to see you would come in such circumstances," he whispers, fingertips dancing above the knuckle of her ring finger, caressing the simple ribbon of her wedding ring. "It was supposed to be happy. I wanted to surprise you in Bahrain after that mission." When Freddie mentioned that he believed Kelly and him would be as happy as Steve is with Cath, he wanted to stupidly reply that it's not possible for anyone to be as happy as she makes him.

"Well, instead of a Halwa, we'll eat some malasadas," she turns her head slightly to look up at him, offering a small smile.

"You always get powdered sugar in your cleavage," Steve's chuckle is faint, but for a brief moment it seems to take the heaviness in his chest away. It comes back quickly, wrenching his heart as the sudden thought clouds his mind. Last time they ate Hawaiian malasadas, they weren't alone and the face of their companion comes back, reminding him of another hard step that needs to be taken.

"Catherine," he swallows hard, gripping her hand tighter, "I should call Mary, but... I'm not sure if-"

"I'll call her, Steve," she clasps his hand between hers. Over the past two years the relationship between Steve and his sister got better, she'd even dare to say they had made huge progress, but the grudges and fear are still there behind their gestures, or rather the lack of them. Somehow Mary bonded with Catherine, though God knows how rough that road was, opening up to her and seeking her support when Steve withdrew, feeling helpless and afraid to worsen her state.

"It shouldn't be like this," Steve's voice cracks and he hangs his head low, chin resting on his chest as he tries to restrain the tears threatening to spill out.

"No, it shouldn't," Catherine murmurs, her own eyes watering once again, "All we can do now is honour your dad's memory. And find the people responsible for it."

He nods, slowly lifting his head up and clearing his throat, the lump still in it, choking his words. It's hard to determine exactly when the job became personal, at which point the mission of hunting down the Hesse brothers turned into a mutual game of cat and mouse, but it seems to spiral down at a rapid pace, getting out of control. Whether the first boundary was crossed six years ago in that small, abandoned shed outside of Salhani, or two years ago on the border of Afghanistan, the longer it takes, the more he is convinced there's something else at stake than the IRA's gun dealer's vendetta.


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews and PMs, to all the guest reviewers and people, who sent me DMs and lovely tweets (LuckyStar). It's a big journey for me - writing this story, and I am really happy to have such great companions with me.

For those, who were wondering how 'big' this adventure will be - there's a lot in the store for Steve and Cath, honestly the story grows and grows ;)

Today we get a glimpse at how Steve and Cath first met... how _everything_ begun...

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****Naval Support Activity Base******  
******Naples, Italy,******  
******March, 2004****

__"I told you not to touch it, man," Freddie cringes as the computer's screen fills with a dozen pop-up windows, red labels and warning signs basically screaming at them.__

__"And I told you to shut up, Hart," Steve barks out, quickly typing new commands on the slightly worn out keyboard, but gets rid only of a few unwanted boxes. The program, which he knows so well from back when he was working in Intel, appears to be jinxed or malfunctioning, because no upgrade would turn it into a hell like this one. He's really tempted to smack that keyboard into the screen, but fortunately restrains himself, channelling the frustration into harder typing instead.__

__And Freddie really hopes none of the keys will pop out and kill someone with the impact, considering the ferocity of Steve's action.__

__Being stuck at the Italian base would have its benefits, of which all members of his team would gladly make use, if only it was a brief visit and not a new sort of a black op mission, which for now consists only of gathering intel, because they are blind as to where to make the next move.__

__When Captain Hasting and Commander White had called Steve in two weeks ago, with a pounding heart he had waited for the first official SEAL mission under his full command. And he got it, though not exactly in a way he was expecting.__

__A combined operation of the CIA and Navy's Special Forces to track, gather information and preferably capture alive two of the most wanted arms dealers, the Hesse brothers. The files of their previous, quite 'legendary' career within the IRA's troops are as detailed as the British SAS decided to make it, not really thrilled to fully cooperate with the US government. But having full access still wouldn't be enough information, because after the Good Friday Agreement in '98 Victor and Anton decided to develop a solo career, which unfolded greatly with all the contacts they had from previous IRA assignments, as well as with the growing number of radical groups all around the world, who seek for specialists of that kind. The last few years of their activity seem to be a big dark hole with a few spots they managed to find and connect.__

__It's a big case, Steve knows that. One that can end with a promotion, a set of ribbons and making this chaotic world a bit better. It can also be a disaster, for which no one will officially claim responsibility, but he, as well his whole team, can be stripped of all privileges and discharged.__

__A tricky game, which he hopes to win, even if he goes completely grey with irritation.__

__The malfunctioning program is definitely heightening that possibility right now, stubbornly denying him access, spluttering new reports on "wrong command". Granted, it's not the computer Steve usually works on, but it was the only one vacant as one of the three Intel officers is gone at the moment.__

__"Sir," often, when focused on something, Steve finds every interrupting voice to be slightly irritating, but Lieutenant Ciprianni's voice somewhat annoys him on a regular basis. He looks up at the Junior Grade, who once again sports that serious, yet snooty face, like he's actually better and wiser than anyone in the room. Steve appreciates assertiveness and ambitions, but passive disrespect for others, especially co-workers, is something he can't stand. Maybe that's why he can't force himself to like the man by any means.__

__"What is it, Lieutenant?" Steve huffs, tempted to ignore him, but it's still barely the third week of working with this team, so he saves the tactic of ignorance and avoidance for later, if it'll be needed.__

__"Maybe I could take a look at that, Sir," he steps forward from his spot beside a dark-skinned officer, who is equal to him in rank, yet he somehow seems to think of himself as the supervisor of the other two Intel officers, if not their commanding officer. Which he is not. He outranks only the ensign, who is absent at the moment and whose computer Steve has tried to use.__

__Steve glances at the officer Amale, who is focused on her work but also making an irritated face at the tone of Ciprianni's voice. It's obvious the man is not really liked amongst his co-workers.__

__With a reluctant huff, Steve steps away from the computer and with a displeased nod motions for the Junior Grade to take his place. Crossing his arms, he ignores Freddie's mutter and fixes his gaze on the screen, impatiently waiting for the windows to disappear.__

__It is not happening though, much to his annoyance. "You sure you know what you're doing, Ciprianni?" Steve glares at the officer, who starts smashing the keys with rising anger, muttering something under his breath.__

__"Uh, yes, Sir," the man frowns, typing a series of commands, which he was apparently sure would work, "It's just, huh, this program seems to be connected to another one, that is blocking the standard commands."__

__"Sir?" At the sound of a surprised, soft voice, Steve turns his head. The missing Ensign stands in the entrance with her hand still on the ajar door. She's shifting her gaze between him, the screen and Lieutenant Ciprianni's back. She's holding a colourful napkin in her other hand and her fingers clench tighter around it, crumpling the paper in a nervous gesture. Finally clearing her throat, she lets the door close with a click and steps forward, eyes never leaving the computer's screen. There's a flash in her brown eyes, a glint of a distressed emotion, which Steve first classifies as mere fear, but as he keeps his gaze focused on her face the veneer of fear transforms into... irritation.__

__Lieutenant Ciprianni turns around abruptly, hands clenching in fists in the apparent sign of anger rising up, influencing not only his stance, but also the tone of his voice, when he spits at the Ensign, "Rollins, have you tinkered with the analytic program?"__

__"No, Sir," her response is within the lines of regulation, but the timbre of annoyance is unmistakably audible. Steve picks up on it immediately, and so does Freddie, but the inquisitive Intel JG Lieutenant doesn't seem to notice, fixated on his own broken pride since he couldn't present himself as the brilliant one.__

__As Steve thinks of it now, it's not the first time Ciprianni is being thrown into the shadows by her. For the past two weeks since they first started working together, Ensign Catherine Rollins has proved herself to be really good at her work, quite brilliant actually - finding associations and the tiniest details quicker than the conceited Lieutenant. Which is probably one of the reasons for the man's aggressive tone, accusing her of being the only reason for his failure with the program.__

__"You clearly did," Ciprianni snorts coldly, gesturing quite violently at the monitor now cluttered with a dozen more blank boxes, "I have worked with that program since the time when you were still in the Academy. It's obviously hacked. Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't report you and demand an investigation as it appears to be highly suspicious case-"__

__"I'll give you one, Lieutenant," Steve, who has had enough of that tone, interrupts in a cold, firm voice. It's harsh timbre edging on the warning note, which immediately alerts everyone present, even Freddie. The usual tone Steve uses, even when barking out orders, is always faintly hinted with calmness, which seems to be dispersing abruptly now. It's not only the Junior Grade's misogynistic tirade, but he crossed the line and Steve has no intention of letting it slide.__

__Straightening, he towers over the seething man, "You're not in command here. Ensign Rollins and you, as well, are under my orders. Should I be reminding you of the chain of command? Because if I have to, it can be a really hard lesson. Do you understand?"__

__Paleness drains the colour from the man's face as he visibly cringes at the harsh threat. Turning fully to Lieutenant McGarrett, he stiffens and replies in required obedience, "Yes, Sir."__

__"I didn't hear you, Ciprianni. Do. You. Understand?" With his hands on his hips and a cold stare drilling through the Junior Grade, Steve reminds Freddie of a pissed off Commander White, which is actually a rather scary thought. Though he never even dared to disrespect Steve as his commanding officer, knowing well when to act like a subordinate, and in that moment he instinctively straightens.__

__"Yes, Sir!" Ciprianni responds loudly, his body now fully tensed, colour coming back to his face in a combination of embarrassment and anger. A juicy palette of thoughts, or rather names and curses, surges through his mind, but he grits his teeth. He'll vent it later, seething angry words to his fellow mates on the cockiness of that SEAL, who hasn't got the tiniest streak of a good leader in him, who - like all of those arrogant Special Forces brats - thinks of himself so highly, but has no brain or skill. And he'll make sure to get back at that disrespectful Ensign, when the opportunity comes.__

__"Good," Steve gives a short nod, "Now I need you to get me the satellite images of the South-Western border of Lebanon from 2000. Map all the potential bases as marked when observing activities and movement of RIRA and Hezbollah trainings."__

__The officer responds with a nod and sprints out the door as soon as Steve dismisses him. The silence stretches, filled only with the low humming of processors and JG Lieutenant Amale's steady typing. A twitch in Steve's jaw is barely visible, an imperceptible sign of the irritation still bubbling under his skin, not only directed at Ciprianni, but induced by the previous struggle with the computer. He grits his teeth, a frown creasing his forehead and he shuts his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to minimize the throbbing in his head. Taking a calming breath, which doesn't really help, he turns toward the Ensign.__

__"Rollins, is it?" he knows that's her last name, he always had a memory for names and faces, especially those with whom he works, nonetheless he waits for her nod, "Care to explain what the hell is wrong with that bloody program?"__

__"Nothing, Sir," she replies and he notices a glint of mischievous amusement in her eyes, but her tone stays respectful and impassive, "The newest version of it allows typing in one's own algorithms, for those who are granted the key code to the advanced options. It's a new improvement. I accomplished a special course three months ago, a joint training for the U.N." Her tone bears no pride or tone of boasting, speaking of a quite exceptional skill with modesty, referring to it only as an explanation of the current technical problem.__

__"Sir, if I may?" Catherine motions to the computer and quickly moves to sit in front of it, when Lieutenant McGarrett nods his permission.__

__Freddie sits on the edge of her desk, like before, when Steve was working on it, but now his body is leaning slightly in her direction, a crooked grin plastered on his face. He startles at the sudden smack to his head. Looking up at Steve, who's glaring at him pointedly, he flashes him a cheeky smile that makes Steve roll his eyes, before they both focus back on the Ensign.__

__Her slender fingers skim over the keyboard swiftly, but gently, barely making any typing sounds. She's familiar with those keys, trustfully playing on them like on an instrument known by heart, without glancing down to check her next move. It takes only a few seconds and the warning windows start disappearing one by one, less than a minute and the whole page is clear.__

__"There," she announces almost happily, quickly retracting to the official tone, "Um, Sir, it's clear now. Some programs are quite tricky, they don't cover everything at BUDs."__

__"I have used computers before, you know," Steve easily falls into a casual tone, his body visibly relaxing as he traces the woman's profile with his gaze. The twitch in the corner of her mouth doesn't go unnoticed, when she mutters under her breath -__

__"Downloading porn doesn't count."__

__The words are quiet, merely audible as a mumbled snort, but both SEALs hear it and it leaves them with open mouths. Freddie's quicker to react, covering his mouth with a hand and masking his laughter with coughing. Oh, this one will be a hilarious gem to tell the others, how Steve McGarrett was burnt with this Ensign's sarcasm. His green eyes flicker with mirth as he glances at Steve above the woman's head, finding his face dumbfounded. He's staring at the young officer, blinking in disbelief at what he had heard. While he could react upon the disrespect, the unexpected teasing tone behind her words provokes this inner, personal streak, a boyish side that is suddenly defensive, like a teenager that wants to impress a girl and maintain his reputation.__

__"Excuse me?" Steve arches his brows, but his tone lacks any harsh discontent. He crosses arms over his chest, puffing it a bit, but Catherine doesn't even look up at him.__

__"Wasn't saying a thing, Sir," she stays composed, looking innocent and shrewdly changing the topic, "I can run the analysis you wanted to start yourself, Sir. Based on the data you've entered, I take it we should search for a pattern or a link in the Hesse's activity in Lebanon."__

__As she was working on some part of the provided data yesterday, Cath had noticed a particular detail, but wasn't sure of its significance. It seems like a weak link, so far with no strong proof or further Intel to support this theory, and Ciprianni's aversion to report anything that hasn't been discovered by him discouraged her too. But he's not here at the moment and Lieutenant McGarrett's trail of thoughts seems to be similar to her own, so she isn't hesitating for long.__

__"Lieutenant," Cath turns her head, looking up at Steve, "If I may, before we proceed, I think I have found a link. But, to be honest, it might also be a blank shot."__

__It takes a moment for Steve to switch back to the main focus, shaking off the distracting one-liner that itched his tongue to respond. With a small jerk, as if to awaken himself, he changes his poise and with a prompting nod motions for Catherine to continue.__

__"Back in the 90's IRA was training some of the ETA cells, as well as working closely with Lebanese militias," she says while typing, the data displayed on the screen quickly changing as she writes next commands, "SAS had the list of camps, where they were supposedly training. At the South-Western border," which, she assumes, is why Lieutenant McGarrett asked for the satellite images of that terrain, "A few months ago, CIA reported seeing Anton Hesse on Lebanese soil. Their Intel suggests he's not only sealing gun deals, but also overseeing the training of small terrorists cells. Yet, when trying to find more about his whereabouts in the southern regions, he disappears. What I've noticed, while screening the data, is that in the past the Hesse's convoys always came from the border of Southern and Nabatieh Governorate. I think there might be a hidden base there."__

__Steve's gaze, focused on the monitor and the display of spots marked on digital maps, shifts back to the Ensign's face. He regards her for a second, taking in the pure concentration written on her face, a glint of determination in her eyes.__

__"Good," he nods, propping his hand on the desk and the other on the back of the chair she's sitting on, leaning his body forward to look closely at the data, "This might be the detail we've overlooked. But we need to know more, before making any move."__

__Straightening back, he lifts his eyes at Freddie, "Hart, get the guys for the run. And tell Hanna to report here. He's quite familiar with those territories, might provide some perspective for Ensign Rollins to cross-reference." With a regulation affirmative, "Aye, aye, Sir," Freddie is out the door in an instant. When they close behind him, Steve shifts his gaze to the officer, though he stays silent for a long moment, which evokes a slight nervous tremble in the tips of Catherine's fingers. She knows when she's being judged, but that's not quite the look he is giving her now. Nor is it one of the many attempts at checking her out that men sometimes try to charm her with. It feels like Lieutenant McGarrett is struggling with his own thoughts, not sure which approach to chose.__

__Shaking his head, as if to get rid of some portion of unexpected thoughts, Steve sticks to the formal, but a softer tone, "Keep it up, Rollins. And don't let Ciprianni's bullshit get you."__

__The corners of his mouth twitch, but a full smile doesn't appear. Unlike Officer Subira Amale, who is smirking at the memory of the short scene from a few minutes ago, which wasn't the nicest, but she can't help appreciating someone finally calling Ciprianni out on his disrespectful behavior. She leans slightly forward, peeking at Catherine from behind the Lieutenant's back and winking, which Cath pretends not to notice. But she does spy the twinkle in his eyes and it doesn't disappear even as he turns around.__

__Just as he reaches the door, he pauses with a hand on the knob, before glancing over his shoulder.__

__"Hey, Rollins!" he calls, making her turn suddenly in her seat in an alarmed stance. It lasts only a short second, but the full grin curves his mouth as he states, "I've worked in Intel."__

__Catherine can't help but smile back at him, barely restraining herself from laughter. With a nod she responds in as much official tone as she can, "Of course, Sir."__

__A chuckle escapes her lips, when the door finally closes behind Lieutenant's back, a chain of amused thoughts swirling in her head and making it hard to stop smiling when she tries to refocus on her work. Subira's interference does not help with that, as she stops her typing and turns fully to Catherine with a mischievous grin plastered on her face.__

__"If, by the end of this assignment, McGarrett doesn't ask you out, I will," an amused twinkle shimmers in Subira's dark eyes. To be honest, she's never been good at guessing who is attracted to whom, from her own experience she knows how tricky it is to assume the obvious and then be stunned at how wrong it was. Moreover, she knows Catherine is one of the last women in the Navy to fall for the charming smile of a guy at whom many throw their panties.__

__But she is definitely the kind of a person, -he- could fall for.__

__Cath tilts her head to the side, smiling at her friend, "Aww, but what would Brenda say?"__

__"We can make it an awesome threesome, if you're game," Subira's nonchalant shrug adorned with an awful eyebrow waggle makes Catherine burst out in laughter.__


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **_I know it's been a while since the last update, for which I am sorry, but the past week was really hectic for me, had no time to finish the chapter. But I hope the length can make it up to you a bit - it's the longest mcrollins chapter/story I have ever written :)_

_Special double thank you to Trish, my amazing beta and friend, who not only edited over 4.6k of words, but supported me through the proces of writing; which this time looked a bit like fighting a dragon._

_To all my amazing reviewers - big thank you! Each of your opinions is important and valuable, you motivate me, as well help me improve my writing._

* * *

****Naval Station Pearl Harbor,******  
******Honolulu, Hawaii,******  
******September, 2010****

The cold pierces through him. The breeze, which somehow he remembers being much softer, prickles at his face like harsh needles. The scent of the ocean mixed with the fruity fragrance and flowery sweetness is somewhat familiar, prodding at his memory, muddling the emotions bottled inside with the shadow of safety this place once brought. Steve scans the surroundings, the palette of blue and grey displayed in the harbour, flecks of sunlight shimmering in the dark blue water. His gaze focuses on that white point, a cradle of light atop the spot of turquoise surface, which he knows so well.

Looking at the Arizona Memorial has always tugged on his heart, a flash of pride and longing which used to fill his boyish, innocent heart with determination and big dreams.

This time it evokes a surge of pain, a reminiscence of yet another lost piece of his life.

He has never met his grandfather. Stories and pictures have built only the image of a person who he hoped would be proud of him. Suddenly he becomes aware of a pattern that seems to be repeating itself, of boys having to grow up without their fathers. Though the circumstances of abandonment are different, it's a part of life and heart ripped out, leaving only thoughts of "what if". Steve got more time with his father than John ever had with his, but fifteen was still too young an age to be separated so brutally at, living for so long with grudges, never fully forgiving or rebuilding their relationship, only to have that chance erased completely now. Steve knows, maybe is aware of it more than most people, how quickly life slips through fingers and how fragile it is, every day engulfed in the shadow of potential threat. And yet he was so stubborn and reluctant to making the first move, to reach out.

Burden of guilt is settled within him, growing heavier and more bitter with each passing hour. The aftertaste of it will stay forever, but he hopes taking action, resolving the drawn out case of the Hesse brothers and honouring his father's death can diminish that encumbrance.

Fortunately, there's a spot of light in his life, a personalized warmth keeping him sane whenever he's close to losing it. And though all his determination is focused on taking action now, his thoughts so easily run towards Cath, missing her maybe more than ever before.

An unexpected, sudden inkling shoots through his mind. One of the chaotic voices, which he tries to tame for the sake of functioning and moving forward, brings out the pleading thought for that curse to be broken - for his kids to never experience anything like it.

It's a brief flash, only a second of terror that freezes Steve's body. A glimpse into a foreign realm, which they've been talking about, but the perspective feels so far away. And it's not a road he wants to follow right now with his thoughts - it's not the time or place to do so.

He shakes off the uneasy feeling, one of the many yanking at his insides, and turns around at the sound of a female's voice.

"Commander?" It's quite strange, hearing his rank being called in such a tone. Used to the official, rather cold version of it - bearing respect or scolding, or the purring timbre of Cath's voice, he's taken aback with a hint of something unsettling in the Governor's tone. Suspecting that his own impatience and annoyance had provoked that reaction, he pushes it aside as something exaggerated by his current emotional state.

"Governor," he greets her as politely as he can, considering that he was almost barking at her over the phone, not in the least interested in wasting his time for show-off gestures of condolences, which probably look great as a contribution to the veneer of the Governor's public appearance. A politician moved by the former police enforcement officer's death, pays her sympathy to his son, an awarded Navy officer - what a pretty headline, a moving public statement. The cynical part of him sees it as nothing more than that, a good show to attract attention, but he also knows there are people who are sincere with their condolences who, just like him, have lost someone important.

But as consoling as it is to know that many people truly cared for his father, Steve isn't ready nor is he in the mood to hear them out and let them offer consoling pats on the back.

He needs to focus and assess the progress of the investigation. Moreover, take a look at what the HPD had overlooked; not because they're incompetent, but for their standard procedure of treating it only as a murder. Which it is not. It goes beyond that border, being an act of terror, conducted and executed by one of the most dangerous men out there, in order to... __What?__

The question of what exactly Victor Hesse was aiming for haunts Steve constantly, filling almost every hour of his flight to Oahu with thoughts of possible motives - none of them being convincing enough.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me," Governor Jameson smiles at him in a manner that makes Steve want to end this conversation instantly. It's a perfectly mastered polite smile, but fake to the core, not reaching her eyes, once again reminding him why he prefers encountering armed men to politicians. The words "I am so sorry for your loss," which he has already heard a dozen times, only annoy him more. He definitely understands that in such a moment there is nothing "right" that can be said, and for people it's the only way of expressing their loss too. But it's too fresh, and he's too wound up, guided by guilt and anger.

One day he'll reach the point when it becomes sadness and longing, embraced and understood, Steve is sure of that, but not yet, not right now. Not before he finds some answers, or faces Hesse himself.

"Is this about the investigation?" Steve asks impatiently, hoping to at least reroute this possibly fruitless conversation towards a topic that might provide some minor information, useful or not.

"Yes," the woman nods, her tone changing into a more serious one now, which finally draws Steve's attention. His body tenses as his inner instinct tells him to prepare for the news he might find overbearing, "We have alerts across all the islands."

Steve barely restrains the snort itching to spit out of his mouth. The corners of his mouth twitch in a hint of a smirk combined with a grimace of annoyance.

He's never the one to judge or criticize procedures of different forces, knowing how often SEAL's tactics were under the pressure of people who thought they knew better. However, never before has he been in such a personal position, heavily involved in an ongoing hunt, which makes him furious with the disdain the people responsible for chasing Hesse here on the island have shown. In the police's perspective it's the right choice of action, efficient for catching a killer. Obviously though, they evidently seemed to have ignored the fact that Hesse is a vicious terrorist with contacts running deep underground.

"You won't find Victor Hesse with roadblocks and search warrants," Steve growls, losing his patience, "He's gone underground until he can find a safe way to leave the island." Maybe his mind and actions are provoked by the impulse of self-guilt searching for revenge, but standing here with the Governor and hearing about the poor attempts at catching the man responsible for his father's death, erases all the previous thoughts on letting the others handle that case. He just can't.

Any politeness disperses from his tone, which resounds with a harsh, icy timbre, "Now why am I here?"

The perfectly controlled outburst, audible in his tone but not the tiniest bit visible in any of his gestures, seems to be more threatening. With the way he restrains his body, keeping the bubbling anger and tension in, it's clear how dangerous he can be, not letting the opponent foresee his next move.

Governor Jameson presses her lips together, looking at the Lieutenant Commander in a hope to gauge his further reaction to her proposal, as it already seems he won't be very cooperative. But she needs him to be. Many years swimming in the political seas have equipped her with the skill of swiftly finding a good leverage point to motivate others to act the way she wanted them to, but with McGarrett it appeared that it would take more effort.

"I'd like to help you get what you came back here for," she aims for a direct approach, which she feels is what he appreciates more. Her hope for the place and emotions to cloud his alertness directs her next words, which - in all honesty - weren't planned. But she needs him on this case, therefore is ready to push the limits of her power. "Your father's death was a wake-up call to me and every law enforcement agency in Hawaii," the mention of John McGarrett evokes an instant flash in Steve's eyes, a clear reflection of determination, "Which is why I'm putting together a task force, and I want you to run it."

Steve isn't impressed with the proposition, it's unsettling and awakens a deeper level of alertness in him. There is a faint streak of temptation, a choir of enraged voices whispering how he could use that position to find Hesse, but he's cautious and repulsed by being involved in any kind of political charades. His motive is clear - he wants to find the man responsible for his father's death and find some sort of closure. But the agenda of the Governor's proposal goes beyond that, he's sure of it. Whether it is to make herself gain points in the upcoming campaign, or to stabilize the sudden breach of trust evoked by a terrorist running around the island, or maybe she has another ulterior motive - whatever it is, he won't participate in it.

"You don't even know me," he says coldly. If she's so adamant on starting a special task force, the choice of the leader should take more time. There are many people more suitable for that position, with more experience, skills, and connections.

"I know your resume," the Governor keeps her game without even flinching or backing down, aiming for praise and ego-boosts, which so often work in her favour, especially when manipulating men, "Annapolis. Five years in Naval Intelligence. Six with the SEALs. Your superiors say that you are the best, the best that they have ever seen."

Barely restraining a snort, Steve interrupts her in a snarky tone, "Let me stop you right there."

Listing his achievements is not the way to win him over, as Steve never was one to crave attention or collect ribbons to gloat. Even with his terribly competitive streak, winning is not something he boasts about for days after.

This chitchat is already getting on his nerves, but now he feels the limits have been pushed. It's quite surprising - Cath always finds it interesting - how a man who, among his skills, has the patience to stay motionless for hours when working the sniper rifle, but has a low level of patience when it comes to other situations, especially personal ones.

"I've been tracking Victor Hesse for six years," Steve points out, a little detail that definitely was not in his files, but is significant in order to talk some sense into the Governor, "If he was bold enough to surface, I promise you, he already has an exit strategy planned."

There are many things that could be said about the Hesse brothers, but Steve has never dared to underestimate either of their ingenuity. While Anton seemingly was the more reckless of the two, Victor always comes with at least two alternative plans. He has also learnt of Hesse's great counter-intelligence, which begins to terrify him the more he thinks about it. He has killed his father, there can only be worse from now on. Steve still has a family, even if for years it felt like he didn't. And if coming after his father was that easy, how much easier would it be to aim for his aunt, or his helpless sister?

Catherine... he can't even let that possibility slip into his mind, or he goes numb.

But one thing is certain, which the Governor, as well many people tracking him, forget. Victor Hesse is a very smart and even more dangerous man.

Steve looks sternly at the woman, ready to completely finish this fruitless play, "He knows I know it, which means I can barely afford the hour it's gonna take to bury my father, let alone stand here talking to you," as he brushes past her, he mutters a not very polite, "Excuse me."

"I can help you find this son of a bitch!" Pat Jameson calls after him, but he keeps on moving. Long, steady strides that slow down only when she follows him and the splutter of her promises irks him to the bone, "With full immunity and means. Your task force will have full blanket authority to go after guys like Hesse and get them the hell off my island."

When Steve stops and turns around, she doesn't notice the flare in his eyes, nor the twitch in his jaw.

"Your rules, my backing, no red tape," Jameson keeps pushing, weaving a basket of promises that could lure the power- or revenge-thirsty, "And I promise you, Commander, what you see with me is what you get."

"Here's what I see," Steve barks, his whole posture tense, "An election year coming up, and a politician who needs the PR, who's willing to do whatever it takes - including bringing me down here to Pearl Harbor, where my grandfather was killed, so I might feel some kind of obligation to fulfill my family's destiny. Is that about right, Governor?"

"I knew your father, Commander," the mention of John triggers the anger bottled inside of Steve. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth, as the woman adds in a concerned voice, "This is personal for me, too."

Steve stands adamant, "Pass." With forced politeness he accepts the card the Governor gives him and doesn't even look her direction, when she walks towards the awaiting car. The small card in his hand feels itchy, the temptation to just crumble it and throw it away so strong, but he grips it tight in his fingers, before sliding back into his pocket.

Once again he lets his eyes drift to the left, where the shimmering water turns from deep blue into more turquoise as the sunlight seeps through dispersing grey clouds. Steve has sunk into the deep waters all around the world, has seen all the shades of the seas and oceans, but the fragrance and colour of the water here seems to be so different. For sure it derives from the emotional connection he has to this place, all the childhood memories embroidered within him. He takes a deep breath, listening to the steady sound of waves and splashes. The urge to dive into the ocean and swim for hours, until his head is cleared of the chaotic thoughts, grows with each heartbeat, but there is no time for it. He doesn't even want to waste time for a quick shower in the hotel room he has booked, but after long hours of being on the move, he needs to freshen up and change clothes.

Before he turns around, ready to leave the base, someone's voice calls out for him in a warm, friendly tone, "Steve McGarrett."

Steve swiftly turns around, his gaze landing on a local man in a green T-shirt slowly approaching him. His dark eyes twinkle with sincere sympathy, smile lighting up his face. There's something about his face, as well the general posture and silhouette, that seems familiar to Steve. "I know you," it's a rare recognition, to remember someone's moves, so far it has happened only with his teammates, as he watched them fight and train so many times. The man before him is not Navy though, he's a local civilian, yet Steve can't shake the feeling that he has seen that face and observed his moves.

"You'd better," he cracks a smile at Steve, "Chin Ho Kelly."

"Chin Ho Kelly!" Steve beams up in an instant, a full smile spreading on his lips and _God_ it's so good to feel that kind of weightlessness for a second, being genuinely happy with the unexpected meeting. Not a forced one, but a simple coincidence, that brings a flash of good memories, reminding Steve that not everything that happened here was heartbreaking.

He reaches his hand out for a firm, but friendly handshake, corners of his mouth already itching from the smile that doesn't want to disappear from his face.

"You were a great quarterback," Steve's voice resounds not only with politeness, but also with a distinctive hint of fascination and excitement, with which he had watched Chin's football games back in high school, learning his moves and admiring his great determination. He remembers his first reaction upon learning that Chin was going to be his father's rookie partner - the mixture of admiration and tiny disappointment, because some part of his teenage dream-filled mind couldn't picture the great high school quarterback in any other role than that of a professional player.

"Oh, that's very kind of you to say," Chin chuckles, looking at Steve knowingly as he adds, "Considering you were the one that broke all my records."

It causes another grin to spread on Steve's lips, a sparkle of boyish pride.

"Oh, that was a long time ago," he shrugs, but the memory of the sounds of cheering and his friends patting him on the back after each game that they won still lingers. "I heard you became a cop," Steve's father mentioned Chin occasionally when they were talking on the phone, always with some forbearance, but the trust and admiration for his young partner were always audible in his voice. John McGarrett valued Chin Ho Kelly, which in an instant made Steve somewhat trustful towards the man.

"I worked with your father in the Seventh," Chin nods, his tone lowering, the timbre of sincere sadness resounding with each said word, but still bearing the awe and respect he had for John, "He taught me everything I know about wearing a badge."

Steve's gaze shifts, looking at their surroundings, as well as noticing Chin's outfit. "Looks like you moved on to greener pasture," he can't remember his father saying anything about Chin leaving law enforcement, then again John was never the one to be over-sharing. Well, not with Steve, anyway. Since being sent away to the mainland, Steve never fully regained the relationship he had previously shared with his father - some barriers were impossible to cross. Maybe because of his own stubbornness, or due to the fact that John became too cautious about telling him things.

"Well, let's just say, the Honolulu PD and I had a disagreement over my job description," If Chin is still irked by whatever has happened, he hides it well, not dwelling on the bitter past. There is gratitude in his eyes as he looks up at Steve, "But your father understood. He was very good to me after I was let go. He stayed my friend, and I know that cost him something." Not turning his back on Chin had cost John McGarrett many friends within HPD, as well as some connections, yet he never even blinked when standing in Chin's defence, with the loyalty and trust that Chin never got from his own family.

"I only wish there was some way I could pay him back," he sighs, gaze dropping to the ground for a second, before he lifts it up to look at Steve again, "But now that you're here, maybe you can do something."

"What do you mean?" Steve frowns, anxiety rising anew at Chin's words.

"I hear the chief of police put a haole and his rookie partner on your father's murder investigation."

* * *

****Sheraton Waikiki Hotel****

Steve's not the one to be doubting Honolulu Police Department's competence, or the skills of two detectives he has never met, but with the scoop he got from the Governor as well as the whole ordeal of the case it feels like the motives of people leading the investigation on his father's murder are highly suspicious. A haole cop might be really good at his work, but the island has its specific ways of approaching people, and something tells him a rookie partner doesn't have all the knowledge to help him with that.

It feels like Hesse's case was set to doom Steve's life from the very beginning. He walked into that dark storm, determined to reach its core and rip it from the ground. But with each step the ground became unstable, more and more beasts lurked at him and at people close to him.

The first blow of the gruesome encounter with Anton had imprinted itself on Steve and Catherine with such force, the helplessness he felt then, when watching Cath succumb into that awful state, still makes him flinch in fear. They worked it out, found their way back to the light and to each other, but whatever was connected to the Hesse brothers in the smallest detail has always impacted Steve in a way.

Physically - in the form of a few wounds he sustained, two scars still lingering on his body, as well as mentally.

The sound of his father's choked voice on the phone resounds in Steve's head whenever he closes his eyes. Focusing and distracting himself are currently the only actions he can take, because the longer he lets that momentum last, the worse it becomes. John's voice mixes with the echo of Steve's own yell, spliced with the muffled sounds of Freddie choking on his blood.

When Steve fell asleep on a plane for a brief hour, the horror displayed in his mind with the horrific carousel of recent and older events. In his dream he had tried to run into the house. He saw his father with a gun pointed at his head. His own heartbreaking yell slowly muted, until there was only sobbing, but it was not his. Cath was gripping at his bloodied BDUs, pale and terrified, her helpless whimpers choked into his chest.

Steve shakes his head abruptly, chasing the nightmare away. Once again he lowers his head, letting the mildly warm stream of water run down his back.

For a long moment he feels like staying there forever, under the shower, cut off from the whole world outside. It's confusing, how impatient and hectic he is, driven with the need to go to his house and start working on the case, at the same time wanting to crawl into the soft, comfortable bed and sleep through all this shit. Wait for Cath to come and ease that pain, which burns from the inside, demanding his attention.

But he can't, not yet.

Stepping out of the shower stall, he grabs a towel and dries off, not bothering with combing through his hair with anything but his fingers. As he walks into his bedroom, his eyes shift between the button-down lying spread on the bed and a small menu leaflet on the small table by the phone. The thought about any meal doesn't even cross his mind though, his stomach still tied in a knot, but in some silly way it makes him want to call Catherine.

He pulls on his pants and a T-shirt, before reaching for his cell and picking #1 on speed dial. He hadn't noticed how rapidly was his heart beating, until she answers and his pulse slows down in contentment.

"Steve," she greets him and though her voice betrays tiredness, she's happy to hear from him.

"Hi, Cath," he sighs, moving toward the window and looking at the vibrant colours of the island, "Did I wake you?"

"No. I was just being brainwashed," Catherine groans, but the alertness it evokes quickly subsides as Steve hears her soft chuckle, "Freddie made me watch some sports bloopers or... something of the sort. Whatever it is. I think I preferred him sedated."

Steve smiles at that, happy to hear her light tone and to know that his best friend is finally awake and goofy as usual. It doesn't take away all the guilt, it will still be there within Steve, whenever he thinks of how great of a SEAL Freddie was, and the fact that he won't be cleared for full active duty again. Maybe they can push him to train new frogmen, though Freddie always said he doesn't see himself in that role - probably scared to see Commander White's reflection in the mirror.

"How is he?" Steve asks, his smile fading as he thinks of his friend undoubtedly pale and weak, IVs attached to his arms.

"Good," she replies sincerely, "Tired and sore, but overall good. The surgery went really well, his vitals are stable, no infection. And his humour is rubbing off on the nurses, though I'm not sure if Kelly will be happy about it." There's a pause suddenly and Steve can easily picture Cath biting on her lower lip, gaze falling to the floor.

"I," she starts, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I haven't told him yet. About your dad," her voice quivers, the sadness and helplessness in it clenching Steve's gut. "I'm waiting for Kelly to get here," Cath clears her throat, suppressing the emotion, which resurfaces each time she lets that thought slip back in her mind, "Freddie needs to have her by his side."

For a long moment Steve doesn't say anything, once again overwhelmed with one of Catherine's thoughtful actions. He knows Kelly's presence is not only for Freddie's comfort, but for Cath's own as well, as the tragic loss had hurt her as much as it shattered Steve. She also knows there will be a hint of guilt, the natural reaction of any soldier who had taken part in an action gone awry. Having Kelly holding his hand, being safe in her arms, will slightly ease Freddie's worry, until the two friends will be able to see each other again.

The thought about his best friend and his wife makes Steve realize how much he misses Cath, part of him wishing to just wait for her arrival in that hotel room, so he won't have to face any of that alone.

"Catherine," he breathes out her name, relishing in the way it calms him.

"Steve?" there's worry and hesitation in her voice, but she waits patiently for him to say whatever it is, that chaotically clouds his mind.

"I just need you here," Steve closes his eyes, leaning his forehead on the cool window glass. The lights paint colourful mosaics on the inside of his eyelids and his mind forms it into detailed shapes - the azure star on Cath's nape; the prism cast by the light cracking in the diamond of her engagement ring.

She says his name again in that soft, tremulous voice, which was always followed by her body moving close, pulling him into safety of her arms. Being unable to feel that now is really hard for them both. So many times the distance between their locations had broken their hearts, demanding the strength and patience, but how long can they last like that?

"Um, I," Steve clears his throat, forcing himself back to focus, "I have to go Cath. Want to, uh, go by the house," he nervously rubs his face with his free hand, "And then the... morgue."

"Okay," she croaks out, "I will be there soon, Steve. The day after tomorrow."

"Good," though it still feels like too far away, "Gonna call you later, 'kay?" He smiles, hearing Catherine's __be careful __and - as always - promises her that he definitely will. It feels like her voice still resounds in his ears even after he disconnects. Taking another deep breath, Steve finally moves. Each of his steps feels heavy as he makes his way to the door.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note. Please, read!**

A solid explanation is needed, I think, because I realized recently how misleading the summary of this story is. I apologize for that, as well for not explaining it in the author's note of the first chapter. We follow the events of Pilot and further plot of the show, but the Hesse plotline serves only as the leading thread, a background on which the main 'purpose' of this story is based - this is a Steve/Catherine story. Their history, struggles, the change they will face now in their lives.

I know some of you were reading this fic in hope to find a focus on the action and Steve's findings, so I understand if you decide that an emotional and psychological aspect of the characters as individuals, but mostly as a couple, isn't of your liking. Thank you for being with me so far.

To those, who love Steve and Cath as much as I do, and want to learn more about them, their past, also read how they adapt to the new situation - thanks for sticking with me! :)

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_Today's chapter is purely from Catherine's perspective, but I assure you in the next part there will be also Steve's side to the events - meeting Danny and his partner, hiring Chin, etc._

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**Naval Hospital,  
Yokosuka, Japan,  
September 2010**

As the soft hand touches the bruised cheek, fingers gently tracing the faint scar across his temple before running upwards to comb through his sandy hair, Catherine's heart clenches slightly. Freddie and Kelly have always been very expressive about their feelings, like they were high on a sugary mixture of teenagers' passion and dramatic character. The tenderness and delicacy, which she witnesses now, is only a flash of the real intimacy, that no doubt is always between the two of them, but just kept in the shadow of loud laughter and even louder arguments.

The dainty endearment reminds Cath of warm skin underneath her own fingertips, the softness and contrasting ruggedness of Steve's stubble whenever she reaches out to touch his face.

It's an instinctive gesture, one she can't control and really doesn't want to. When they kiss and it becomes an attempt to both touch him and keep him in place, while he steals her breath away, or whenever she notices he's in distress and touches him in hope to provide the faintest sign of support.

Observing Kelly and Freddie in their emotional exchange, Kelly's tears as she cries from fear and relief, increases Catherine's impatience. A heavy feeling resides within her, filling her stomach with rock-hard bitterness, an itching under her skin to seek Steve's presence. She doesn't regret staying by their friend's side, but her thoughts are running towards Steve every few minutes and it's not something she can help. The need to finally land on Oahu, to find herself in his presence, becomes more and more of a selfish wish. She wants to be there for him, to give the support in whatever form he will want it, but a part of her needs him as much, maybe more.

Scraps of past experience flash through the bits of current events, whenever she heard Steve's voice during those few short phone calls since he landed in Hawaii, it made her realize he was barely holding up.

The adrenaline and determination keep him going, and her love for him keeps her from falling apart.

Catherine isn't one to pretend she's not shattered, but choosing a moment to let herself break down is a cautious process. Years in the Navy taught her to be tough and to grit her teeth, and only a few places felt safe enough to strip down of all the barriers. Steve's closeness always serves as a safety blanket, into which she easily falls, letting his arms hold her as each ounce of pain pours out.

It has been that way even before they became a couple, a part of her mind coded itself into finding his warmth and smelling the only thing that can protect her. At first she tried to cope on her own, but every part of her body craved Steve's presence, whispering that without him she'd die, which made her panic even more then the sudden streaks of anxiety hitting her out of nowhere. However the logical part of her brain knew it derived from those horrific three days outside of Salhani, she was fighting it with all her might, which only made things worse.

It took a few angry sessions with her therapist, before Catherine accepted it, and even more time before she spoke to Steve about it.

Over the years she had slowly rebuilt her previous confidence, the self-assurance that she doesn't need anyone apart from herself to face some of the fears and tough situations. She had to, their paths weren't always crossing, actually got suddenly separated, leaving Catherine for over six months in the terrible pit of cold sweat waking her up at night, greeted each morning with hands trembling for no reason, jumping up in her seat in the safe, quiet room just because she thought she had heard a faint echo of gunshots. Clawing at her own legs to shake herself of the panic, her thoughts instinctively ran to the strong arms that held her close on that terrible day. There's a picture of Steve on her phone, a silly one taken by Billy, who used the idea of taking their pics as an excuse to write his number into her contact list. If the panic became overbearing to the point where she felt like her spinning mind is being trapped within a paralyzed body, she'd look at the picture, trying to focus on the memory of a rapidly beating heart in his chest, to which she was pressed, when he shielded her with his arms.

It wasn't a magical cure, and it did not always work, but it evoked a sense of safety that has helped establish other ways of coping. The disbelief over how much the situation has changed, the tables being turned on them, still surprises her as she realizes that for years, since their friendship and support bloomed into passion and love, it is her that is an anchor to Steve.

With the current situation, though, they will have to balance it out, both of them needing the other to be strong, at the same time wanting to crumble. He needs it more, she knows it, having just lost his father in the most awful way, blaming himself for it to the agonizing extinct. But there are moments when the echo of panic, which she has hoped to have shed years ago, resurfaces. A second, when looking at Freddie's wounds brings back another sight of blood spilled, wide dead eyes staring at her frozen in horror, and she barely restrains herself from curling on the floor in a mess of trembling sobs. Still driven by adrenaline, but most of all by determination to be strong for Steve, to be there for him when he needs to let it all out, she holds up. Knowing that at some point, maybe in a few weeks, when the first wave of grieving falls down, she will have to tell him.

Though maybe she will only be voicing out what Steve already suspects. So often it is apparent how well she knows him, but he knows everything about her by heart, so easily reading her, sensing when she's troubled.

Without a word she slips out of Freddie's room, so that he and Kelly can have a long private moment, which they clearly need, and to catch a break on her own. She needs to occupy herself, get her hands on something - maybe a cup of coffee or some meal, so her fingers won't itch their way into her pocket to reach for the phone. It's been over sixteen hours since she spoke to Steve and she knows that it can only mean he got himself onto something, on Hesse's lead probably. Which is good, but it also worries her. However reckless Steve might seem occasionally, now driven by his anger and despair, she's not afraid of him doing anything stupid - he always knows his abilities, as well boundaries. But it's the emotional impact of it all that makes her impatient for her flight.

The soft, cheery noise that fills her ears distracts Catherine from her thoughts, for a second surprising her with the light space in which she suddenly found herself.

The hospital cafeteria looks clean and pleasant, so different from all the other hospital dining areas she has been to. There are not many people around, mostly patients and their families, a few members of the staff by a table in the far corner. The tempting smell of fresh coffee makes her inhale deeply, drawing her attention to the glass counter, behind which a set of great coffeemakers spreads the delicious scent. Cath makes her way over there, hand already reaching to her purse for her wallet.

A soft cling resounds as she rummages around the bottom and something small rather sharply-edged falls into her hand. She retrieves it, fingers tightly clasped around the coral starfish key ring, two keys hanging on it.

An abrupt swirl of emotion washes over her, evoking a longing for the smell of ocean and peonies. Every time she holds these keys, a smile appears on her face, thoughts of home filling her mind with colourful splashes of not many, but so meaningful memories. This time there's a dull ache, a shade of sadness coming from the scary feeling that they will have to abandon it. It's too early to be even thinking about possibilities, if Steve would want to sell his father's house, or if he suggests they actually move there, because he can't just get rid of it. She loves their house in Coronado, a small space, which they haven't really had the time to fully enjoy, but it's not the place that makes it a home. It's Steve's presence, their pictures, that little sign on the wall.

She is reluctant to accept any change, especially a very sudden one, but there is no possibility of not following Steve anywhere he goes. He is her home.

Cath tosses the keys back into the handbag, retrieving her wallet this time and ordering coffee. A smiling woman in minty green uniform asks if she wants a freshly baked pie, but Catherine doesn't feel like eating anything. She picks a small table in the corner next to the entrance, sitting down on the plastic chair with a sigh.

Tracing her fingertips up and down the paper cup, she lets her thoughts twirl in a chaotic maze for a few minutes, before she finally takes a big sip and uses the boost the strong, caramelized flavor provides, to focus. She won't be of any use, if she lets the fears and emotions take over her now. Steve operates on certain trained modes, but so does she and it's time to switch to the analytical part of her brain.

One is certain, Victor Hesse had had to arrive on Oahu earlier, before Steve and Freddie got to North Korea.

It's not a brilliant discovery, anyone could get to the same conclusion knowing the basic facts. The raid of questions as to why he was there is a problem she tries to disassemble, looking for clues and possibilities. Hawaii's criminal side is known for its ties to the Yakuza, which could easily be the reason for Hesse's presence there. But him using the opportunity to track down Steve's father, when someone tipped him off about his brother's abduction, seems like a fishy, disjointed theory.

Catherine tries to fight the most logical, yet cruel idea that forces its way into her mind, that Hesse was on Oahu for one reason solely - to kill John McGarrett.

The veneer of personal grudges serves as a believable background, after all Steve was designated to hunt the Hesse brothers down. With all the contacts and informants Hesse has, Commander McGarrett's identity was possible to obtain. Retaliation is a plausible motive, easily feeding the authorities as well as Steve's CO, a quick and neat smokescreen, secluding the real motive.

The more Catherine thinks about it, the more sure she becomes of an ulterior motive. All these years when Hesse had the opportunity to strike at Steve in any way, why now and why attacking his father? John McGarrett might have been an older man, but definitely a target harder to hit than someone else also close to Steve. Killing John was also a trigger certain to push Steve into chasing Hesse with the most vicious ferocity, it would not be a blow making him step down.

John had to be the target all along.

The thought seems surreal at some point, no logical explanation for any connection between John and Hesse's gun-dealing empire, at least for now she can't seem to come up with any. But she also can't pretend it's not probable.

She stirs suddenly as the buzz vibrates on her thigh, ringtone turned down to the minimum volume, resounding from her pocket. Taking a quick gulp of coffee to moisten her throat, Cath picks up her phone, eyes drawn to the screen in hope to see Steve's goofy face on it. The picture is different and the name attached to it invokes a wave of sadness, edging on nervousness.

Clearing her throat, Cath finally answers, her voice hushed as she smiles sadly, "Hey, Mary."

A phone call she had made to Steve's sister almost two days ago was more awful than she had expected it to be, filled with tears and Cath's soft voice trying to provide any kind of comfort, though it was futile. The most hurtful was the lack of surprise in Mary's voice upon the fact Catherine was calling her to break the news, not her brother. Two years ago, Catherine would have expected Mary to burst out, hang up on her even, but Mary had gone through a lot, made an effort to change herself and change the relation between her and Steve. The hint of disappointment in her tone was audible, but it dispersed into the concern with which she asked how Steve is holding up.

"Catherine, hey," Mary's voice is tired, timbre of tears still perceptible and Cath can easily imagine that similar posture the McGarrett siblings share - with head hung low, one hand rubbing on the nape of her neck, eyes closed. "Am I interrupting anything?" she asks, forcing a chuckle, but it fades quickly, just as Catherine's smile upon that. A couple of times in the past Mary had chosen rather bad moments to call.

"No," Cath replies, "I'm having a little break at the moment. God, I can't remember the last time I drank such good coffee."

"Last July," the next words they say in unison, with a dreamy sigh of longing, "Double kahlua frappe."

Their soft mirth tingles for few seconds, a blissful blink of a moment taking them back to one week in July 2009, when all three of them had gone to Hawaii. It is weird, having thought not more than a month ago about the possibility of spending this year's Christmas together, inviting John and Mary to Coronado, but now facing this tragedy.

A deep sigh draws Cath's attention back to the present, making her tense instinctively, bracing herself for the words, which she honestly hoped not to hear from Mary, but she knows she also expected them at some point. It is a conflict between wanting to be supportive of Mary, but also needing to make everything in her power to help Steve feel like his family hasn't crumbled into pieces and he still has his sister beside him. Catherine knows the situation isn't easy for Mary, with her fragile, barely rebuilt grasp on life, but she has hoped for her sister-in-law would take that step.

"Catherine, I can't come," Mary croaks out, "I, uh, I mean I will, but I can't be there for the funeral. It's just..."

"Have you talked to your doctor?" Cath asks softly, knowing all too well how sometimes doing the simplest things is impossible, more so the challenge of attending a father's funeral. She's not sure how Steve will be able to go through it, but she intends to stick to his side.

"Yeah," comes the answer, "He suggested I try facing it, considering, you know, that I have support of Steve and you. And, eh, he's probably right about me not making full closure, if I'm not there, but... I can't. It's not about being there for the funeral itself, but everything that comes with it."

"People," Catherine nods to herself, corner of her mouth twitching in a sad smile upon another trait the siblings share.

"People," Mary admits, "I'm not ready to deal with all of dad's friends looking at me, wondering and asking questions, where I've been, what I'm doing. It always feels like they judge us, me and Steve. For not being there for dad. Steve at least has an excuse, being Rambo, saving the world," she jokes faintly, "My life is none of their business, but unfortunately I'm not as polite and skilful at dismissing people with a smile, like you. So... I will come a day or two after the funeral, to-" there's a long pause and Catherine's free hand clenches around the coffee cup as she hears the stifled sob, "To say goodbye to dad. And to be with Steve."

"I understand," and she does, even if there is a part of her that's irked, not angry at Mary, but the situation that put both of them in this position, "And Steve will understand it too. Just call us whenever you're ready and we'll arrange a flight for you."

There's no point in asking if Mary can book her flight on her own, her current job allows her to live in a small, cozy apartment, but it's doubtful Mary has enough saved to buy a ticket to Hawaii. Besides, Steve wouldn't let his little sister use the money, not now when she wants to save up to go back to college. They talk for a few more minutes, Cath listening intently to Mary's brief description of her new meeting group, in which she clearly finds herself better than with the one in the facility. Cath's coffee is cold by the time they disconnect, but she sips it slowly, waiting for the agitation to subside. Peeking at her phone every few seconds, as if waiting for it to miraculously display Steve's face on the screen, she finishes the drink, cringing at the last gulp that comes more bitter than anticipated.

Long minutes pass before she decides to head back to Freddie's room. Peeking at the plates with slices of freshly baked pies, Cath considers buying one for Kelly, but decides against it. Being pregnant, who knows what Kelly eats at the moment, if the smell of pie won't cause nausea. A bitter taste rolls on Cath's tongue and she swallows hard as the sudden pang of jealousy hits her. Out of nowhere, seemingly without any reason, but it spreads through her in a fast wave, making her rub nervously at her wedding band.

Quickly pushing it aside, Catherine tries to refocus her thoughts on the association map she had begun creating in her head in an attempt to draw a scheme of Hesse's possible connections and motives.

Her fingers itch to take the phone and dial Steve's number, partly to share her findings, but mostly because of worry. Sometimes there are weeks when they can't even hear each other, but now her concern is doubled due to the circumstances. Steve is alone out there, no team to support him, no gear, no liaison that could get him out of the storm.

Cath keeps her fingers close to her pocket, brushing it every few seconds and clenching her hand in a fist, to stop herself from reaching for the phone, but finally caves in. She had been about to call him in a few hours anyway, to inform him of her flight and to ask if they will be staying at a hotel, or if he is ready to sleep at home. Fingertips tap on the screen nervously, still hesitating to make the call. She stops in her tracks and changes her direction, turning to the left instead, into the quiet long hallway leading to the radiology department. Sitting down on the plastic chair, she presses number one on speed dial and takes a shaky breath.

It's surprising how quickly Steve picks up, his voice quite cheery, though she can easily sense the tiredness in it. "Catherine," he rasps her name out and she can't help but smile at the sound of happiness in his tone.

"Hello there, Sailor," she greets him, for a second the usual, playful tone so naturally taking over, "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," he assures her, "We're at Pearl at the moment, a short stop, before pursuing the lead we got."

"We?" The word instantly draws Catherine's attention, she's not sure yet if the plural number alerts her, or if she's actually not really surprised, "Did you drag some of your SEAL buddies to Oahu?" He is capable of doing that, although more likely it would be because they would follow their leader and friend to any hell, but this is too personal for Steve. The need to do it by himself, not risk anyone else's life, is too strong and mixed with his stubbornness she really doubted he'd let anyone do it with him.

A faint chuckle precedes his reply, "No. I mean my-" there's a sudden pause, as if he realized it's a news he hadn't yet told her about, "Uh, my team."

"Team?" Cath straightens in her seat, "What team? Steve?" A deep sigh follows and he begins to tell her. Quickly, not getting into too many details, but stating the most important parts. There will be time to let her in on everything, once she lands in Oahu.

Steve doesn't hide the annoyance towards the Governor, describing how she approached him and tried to manipulate him, and when he mentions the reason why he gave in, it is said with a hint of sheepishness. He had been in his father's, _his own _house, when two HPD detectives drew their guns out on him. Theoretically he was trespassing and invading the crime scene, but he would not have had the need to if the police did their job properly and listened to his suggestions. The two detectives that stormed into the garage didn't want to listen, and well, maybe him pointing a gun at one of them had been a bit provocative, but Steve isn't used to backing down so easily. Especially not a mere minute after discovering an old red box, which holds some kind of key to this whole mess. The sound of his father's last words, calling him a champ, had resounded in his head with a force of a thunder, when he spotted the rusty sign on the tool box. Detective Williams and his partner Meka Hanamoa were persistent in their demands for Steve to leave the box, which was not negotiable. So he had reached out for the solution - a phone call to the Governor.

Steve's voice is firm and light, a distinctive hint of determination is audible, when he tells her about Chin Ho Kelly and the hope on getting any word from his informant, but it quivers slightly with his last words, a thought on which he really hasn't pondered at all yet, "Cath, I... I think it's just temporary. The task force, I mean. I don't want to leave the Navy, it's-"

"It's okay, Steve," she assures him in that soft voice, which never was judging, aside from the times when she accused him of purposely touching her butt during the briefing. "You had to do what was best at the moment, adapted to the situation," she has no idea what can become of that, or whether it develops into a twist that changes their lives even more so, but Catherine knows he hadn't put much thought into it and now isn't the time to press him about it, "Once you get Hesse, it will be clearer what the next step should be. You can then let the Governor find someone else in your place, or..." she pauses, it's confusing, being just told he became the leader of a special task force, something they have never really considered. There were talks about future possibilities, transferring to a more permanent place, preferably Coronado, but _that _scenario, understandably, never came up.

"Anyway," Cath changes her tone, a light chuckle escaping her lips, "You threatened two police detectives with a gun, then took the case away from them by calling the Governor, _and _hijacked them into your team? God, Steve, you never were good at first impressions."

"I made a good impression on you," she's sure he's grinning right now, and her heart flutters, happy that at least for a second she got his mind off the burden to which he has to get back soon.

"Apparently I have low standards," Cath snorts. A tinkle of mirth resounds on the line, a distant hum of waves in the harbor, mixing with the hospital's noises, fills the silence as they both smile.

Catherine is the one to break the comfy bubble, her voice cracking when she returns to the core of the problem, heavy bitterness bubbling up inside her as she tries to form her thoughts into coherent sentences. "Steve, I was actually calling, because I think the whole case..." she leans forward with a sigh, propping her elbows on her knees and rubbing her temple nervously, "Retaliation is a facade. I think Hesse was after your dad all along, it had nothing to do with you."

There's a dead silence, pierced by a sharp intake of breath, abruptly rising Cath's worry and guilt for burdening him with additional heaviness. "Sorry," she whispers, "I shouldn't drop it on you right now, I don't even have access to the evidence..."

"No, Cath," he interrupts her quickly, "I think you're right. It's... I can't think of any reason now, but dad was on to something. There's a box full of stuff he was working on. Actually," Steve pauses and she can hear shuffling, like he's changing his position and place, walking away from possible eavesdropping. "Actually, I could use your skills," he admits and there's a hint of longing in his tone, but the seriousness of it tells Catherine he really means her Intel abilities, not only her presence.

"Wheels up in eight," she says with an impatience and relief at the same time, it seems too long to wait, but it is also soon, "But if you want, I can try contacting someone at Pearl and ask for a favor."

"Thanks, but for now I prefer to keep it just between the two of us," this time it's not the fragility of his natural trust taking over, he has too many reasons and suspicions to allow anyone come close to that box.

Catherine nods, even though he can't see her, speaking up only few seconds later, "Of course."

"Cath, I-" she doesn't let him finish, recognizing the disappointment and sorrow in his voice, which she knows so well. It means they have to end the call, and no matter how long they've been speaking, it's never long enough.

"Have to go," Catherine finishes for him, smiling balefully, "I know. Will see you really soon. Tomorrow," a hint of excitement slips into her tone when she says that word, as if it's a long awaited date. The fear of outcomes John's murder can evoke rises higher, now mixed with the uncertainty of the future, which always was a little foggy for her and Steve. Navy was their constant, they have learned to built their lives around it and include it along the far steps of their planned family future, but this whirlwind of events threatens that stability. For now the most important is for them to go through it, for Steve to make amends and find Hesse. The rest, well, they will face it together for sure.


	6. Chapter 5

_Sorry it took so long! The time wasn't on my side for the past weeks, unfortunately. Also my lovely beta, Trish, is now facing a big challenge of starting her uni life. Good luck with that, cupcake! :) And thank you for still finding time to check my writing. _

_So please, don't mind the long time you sometimes have to wait for chapters, I know it can cause impatience, but I assure you this story won't be abandoned in the middle :) _

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**Wailoa Shave Ice,  
Oahu, Hawaii,  
September, 2010**

Steve's grip on the colourful cup tightens, the fingers of his left hand tapping out of rhythm on the Camaro's side mirror, before he moves them to his side. The periwinkle coloured fabric of the T-shirt is crumpled in his fist. Having to wear a silly, too-large piece of clothing isn't the reason for the fidgety movements, which he quickly tames, instinctively regaining control over his body, so any of his twitching muscles won't betray his inner state. It's not the worst thing he has ever worn – there is a small, unsanitary bar somewhere in a corner of Tijuana, where there may or may not be some pictures of SEAL team members dressed up in the most ridiculous of outfits, including one tall shepherdess with tattoos peeking from underneath the yellow sleeves of her dress...

No, the promotional T-shirt with the giant head printed on it doesn't make him feel uncomfortable, it's the impatience bubbling inside. As much as he knows that each step that takes him closer to Hesse should be taken cautiously, the risk of the situation turning around and hitting him with an unexpected twist of events is too high, especially having a smart and resourceful terrorist as his opponent.

Determination and skills are on Steve's side, and there are many details which might play to his advantage, but on the contrary, could also make him fail miserably.

Knowing the island's general rules is one thing, but he's been gone too long and doesn't have the connections, which Hesse definitely has.

Reaching for Chin Ho Kelly's assistance was the only logical idea that had come to his mind, even if it seemed to have offended the two detectives whom Steve had abruptly incorporated into the task force – which he barely established hours ago over the prompt phone call. Steve is trained to make quick decisions, in the midst of action there is no time to pick on the tiniest details of possible outcomes.

Based on his instincts, experience and quick assessment, his decisions as a leader have always excellently balanced the needs of fulfilling the mission and keeping his men safe. This time, however, the goal is his main focus. Since landing on Oahu, getting Hesse had become the sole motive for his actions, even though a part of him knows it's a risky obsession, which he should tame for the sake of his own safety. There may be many things said about him, Steve knows, but being accused of recklessness is one of the most offensive. He would never endanger anyone beside himself - and risking his own life isn't the easiest choice, his devotion and selflessness so often in conflict with the need to get back safe to someone, who waits for him.

As he stands here, leaning on the shiny Camaro, the voices of his companions reaching his ears, he becomes aware that he has pulled people into the mess with him.

Which changes the situation again.

The decision to take up the Governor's offer was an impulsive one and he knows it. Too many unpredicted side effects come from it, he has begun to realise, but the more time he spends with them, the harder it dawns on him. What was supposedly the chase after his father's murderer, and for the detectives it's solving the case, can so easily go sideways, putting so many innocent lives in danger.

Steve glances at the two men beside him, one fidgeting nervously and pulling hard at the Kamekona's Shave Ice T-shirt, like it's the most uncomfortably itchy fabric in the world and it eats through his skin.

Detective Danny Williams, Steve has begun to notice, is quite vocal when it comes to expressing his current emotional state. At the first small rant he has heard after kind of hijacking the two of them into his non-existent team, the veneer of it being too loud and exaggerated faded. Sure, the demeanor is rather strange to Steve, himself being more closed and silent, but he begins to understand the system of this expressive habit Williams holds.

Partly, it reminds him of Freddie who, like Danny, wears his heart out on his sleeve, giving not only his full mind's focus, but also experiencing things with his whole heart.

However whiny Williams seems to be though, the details Steve picked up from checking his files and listening to him and his partner's, Meka, conversations indicate that Danny Williams just misses home. He moved to Hawaii for his daughter, the apple of his eye, but he left his whole life on the mainland. Probably losing friends, limiting contact with his family, abandoning his work and all the dreams he had, are understandably reasons enough to being a little less than happy with the sun-soaked islands.

Being interrupted in his work by a stubborn victim's son could easily annoy any police officer; if Steve was on the other end of that dynamic, he would probably have handcuffed and arrested himself. But he hasn't got the comfort of putting himself in someone else's shoes, the heaviness of guilt and resolve pushing him forward, constantly reminding him of time ticking away. He has been tracking and chasing Hesse brothers for many years now and knows how easily they can slip through fingers, all the connections to the underground crime world providing them with the best possibilities of escape under the radar, then hiding in a rabbit's hole.

Stepping through the door of his old house had been the hardest move he had to make in recent years. There was a time, about four years ago, when he had been nervous going down that cobbled path from the pergola by the gate to the porch. His palms sweaty then, steps slow and reluctant. It was the feeling of slender fingers entwined with his, that kept him from running away.

Back then he was still full of anger and resent toward his father, and going back home for a visit made him nauseous. The crisp memory of the awkward and somewhat cold first few hours that now feel like time wasted, when he could have been reconciling with his dad instead of questioning him. They had made it better, slowly working on reconnecting, at least on some level, but it wasn't enough. Steve had spent so much time being angry at his father, unable to forgive him, and now it is too late. His grip on the cup tightens at the flash of the memory of a cold door handle beneath his fingers, when he entered the house hours ago. Silence had filled every corner, echo of memories thronging with each careful step he took inside, then a sudden scream had pierced his mind - the recall of his own yell upon the sound of a gunshot.

Steve was driven by a myriad of emotions, edging on desperation prompted by helpless virulence. Confronting him at that moment with the sole intention of pushing him away from finding the truth, resulted in him reaching for any means that would get him on the case.

Maybe it was a trigger that set the forward march mode on, not only making him sign the deal with the devil, but aggrandising the focus and determination, which drew forth the leader SEAL inside of him.

Hijacking two detectives – Catherine had been right to use that term, as it couldn't be described differently – for the purpose of this temporary special task force, both by tempting them with the promise of finishing the investigation they had started, as well not giving them much choice in the matter, has provided him not only with the information, but also back up, which he really needs. So the little shootout that happened hadn't been part of the plan, but it also didn't surprise Steve. Chasing Victor Hesse is bound to include a multitude of threats, gunfights included. However bad he felt for the graze wound Williams suffered, he's not used to focusing so much on injuries, especially minor ones.

With each step of this investigation Steve realizes how many differences there are between the military service and the police. Their service is dedicated to protecting and saving people, and no doubt the sacrifices they are ready to make are equally big, but there is a line separating them.

A line which the detectives here see as recklessness and unnecessary risk, while Steve and all the men he has served with just grit their teeth, pushing forward, because there are no regulations when you're on foreign soil, bruised and battered, with not only your life at risk, but also shouldering the responsibility of protecting so many others' lives, in places where even nature seems to be against you.

Steve is jerked back to reality feeling a pair of curious eyes drilling into him. It's a kid, with a gigantic stick of pink cotton candy bigger than her head, but while most of the kids would stuff themselves with the sweet, she just holds it, more interested in staring at him.

"Are you a cop?" the girl asks in a tone that is more inquisitive than excited, both her question and behaviour surprising Steve and making him a little speechless.

He glances at his companions, the two detectives grinning widely from not that far away, like they're enjoying this little display. Both smiles are genuine, not only the flicker of teasing upon seeing Steve's dumbfounded face, but a flash of soft happiness that any interaction with children normally brings.

"Uh, no," Steve answers, offering a small, slightly uncomfortable smile, which unfortunately isn't reciprocated as the girl tilts her head and watches him even more intently. Her response that he looks like a cop elicits chuckles from Meka and Danny, while Steve huffs in defeat. Scratching the back of his head, he tries to find a way to gently get rid of the curious kid. Interacting with children isn't scary for him, even if he never got much opportunities to spend time with kids, but they're in the middle of investigation and his impatience triumphs over his soft spot that on any other occasion would result in him actually getting into the conversation with the girl.

"Do you like cotton candy?" Meka bends down slightly to meet her eyes, smile spreading on his face as he points at the big ball of sweet cotton.

"I don't like it," the girl shrugs, her eyes drifting back to Steve and squinting slightly as she tries to stare the tall man down. Beside her, Meka presses his lips together, stifling a chuckle and looking somewhat sympathetically at McGarrett.

Before Steve opens his mouth in an attempt to shoo the girl away, his eyes scanning the surroundings in search of the kid's guardian, Danny comes to his rescue. He reaches through the Camaro's open window and struggles to withdraw something big and fluffy from the backseat. Soft, pink fabric tickles Steve's neck, when the man manoeuvres the enormous stuffed rabbit. "I got something you might like, okay?" he hands the girl the fluffy toy, which not only draws her attention, but instantly brightens her face with a smile.

They watch as she hops away with the bunny, excitedly showing it to some other kids a few yards away, before Steve turns his head, brows rising as he looks questioningly at Danny. "You drive around with stuffed animals on a daily basis?" he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching. The logic cued that the toy was meant for Danny's daughter, about which Steve had learned earlier on that day in a brief conversation, while the three of them had waited for Chin at Pearl. Still, he doubts all dads have teddy bears stuffed in their cars just in case.

On the other hand, he remembers some of Mary's frogs always stacked in the backseat of their car, when they were kids.

"Laugh it up, it saved your ass," Danny shrugs and smiles at the face of slight embarrassment on Steve's face, "Don't worry, man. Sometimes my own daughter catches me off guard. Kids at that age are really curious."

"True," Meka nods, standing up, "Though, it was quite amusing to watch you tense under the girl's gaze," he adds, grinning. Tilting his head slightly, he looks at McGarrett, taking in his whole posture and all the gestures and impressions he had made on them for the past twenty hours. "Not much experience with kids, huh?" It's not really obvious, being a SEAL doesn't necessarily mean the man has had no interactions with children, but the impression that's been painted for the past hours does make it seem so.

"Not many opportunities," Steve shrugs, peeking over his shoulder in hope to finally see Chin approaching with the needed information.

He can feel both men eyeing him and tries to ignore it, knowing this kind of curiosity brings up personal questions, which always makes him close up and withdraw. The memories of many casual conversations in the difac, where people were sharing laughs and shards of stories about their families, flashes in his head, along with the pang of uneasiness and sadness it always brought, whenever one of the questions was directed at him. Steve knows they meant well, wanting to know him, but some barriers he couldn't get past, especially not with people he barely knew.

"Are you one of those sailors?" Danny takes a mouthful of ice as he asks, and while the question itself sounds judgmental, irking Steve a little, the tone, as well Williams' face, are not accusing.

"One of _those_?" Steve frowns, reluctantly focusing his gaze on the blond man, who is swaying on his heels.

"With a girl in every port," he makes a wide gesture, which, Steve has noticed, is something that Williams does a lot. "No commitment, or stability. Ongoing adventure," Danny glances at his partner, Meka, who now stares at him with a disapproving look, "What? No offense, really. I'm just wondering. Not everyone is made for marriage and there's nothing wrong with that."

At the last sentence Steve wants to burst out laughing. Not being made for marriage was never a trait he would pin on himself, even when years back some people thought the exact same thing. A lack of overly excited or loudly expressed interest in starting a family didn't mean those thoughts had never crossed his mind.

A wedding ring and a wife, whose presence he longs for, are proof enough.

He could easily smirk right now and call Williams out on his big mistake, but he keeps an impassive face. His thumb instinctively rubs on the inner side of his ring finger, where the gold band should be placed. So often he misses the feeling of it wrapped around his finger, but he takes it off whenever he's on a mission. Steve's thoughts drift to that small pouch hidden in his duffel bag, the velvety fabric scented with sea, tiny grains of sand still on the bottom of it. The shining ribbon of gold safely stored there, waiting for the right moment to take it out and slip back on his finger.

There's an instinct stopping him from doing so, the shadow clouding his life at the moment, threatening everyone close to him with harm. His marriage to Catherine isn't classified, yet he hopes Hesse doesn't know about her, won't reach for her. Not wearing the wedding band may seem silly, an irrelevant detail that won't actually keep Cath safe, but if it gives even the tiniest chance of protecting her from preying eyes, he's going for that.

And it's not the wedding ring that makes him a husband. The tingling feeling of warmth it spreads down his veins, when he has it on his finger, is merely a drop in the vast ocean of feelings he has for Catherine. The most comforting thought is knowing she doesn't need him to wear it, to be sure of his feelings.

A sudden pang of longing clenches his heart, the bittersweet combination of happiness and impatience for her imminent arrival. But it also sends a jolt of fear down his spine. So many steps behind Hesse, with no certainty of getting closer despite his determination and means, makes him dread for the danger it can pull Cath into. He has to make sure the case is closed, before she gets to Oahu.

Returning his focus to Danny, he rolls his eyes, while answering his previous question, "Something like that."

Steve turns his head, huffing impatiently as the awaited man is still nowhere to be found. "What's taking Chin so long?" Not for a moment had he any doubt in Chin's skills and connections, the experience the former HPD Lieutenant has as well as everything Steve has heard from his father about him, serve as the most solid resume. Steve had been downright honest with the words he had spoken to Chin a few hours ago. John had trusted him and that is enough for Steve.

Which is something that may seem to be a foolish mistake, even more so because it seems to be conflicting with the difficult relationship Steve had shared with his father - for many years Steve had been angry at his dad, felt betrayed, which invoked the clear trust issue he was struggling with. But John's assessment of people was something Steve learned to value and trust, because on that aspect his father was never wrong. Whether he chose to surround himself and his family only with good people, or he simply had an instinct for that, an instinct of an experienced officer, or inner personal skill.

Steve, however narcissistic or ego-driven it might seem, thinks of himself as a good judge of character too.

He finds the two detectives he has hijacked being great officers, probably also great men, but he has not yet reached the point of trusting them fully. With Chin Ho Kelly the vibe was there instantly. Maybe he needed to put the trust in someone, to find a rock of support in his pursuit of Hesse, and with Catherine miles away he reached out to a man, who was close to his father.

"Finally," he sighs, when a familiar face appears. Rolling his eyes at Chin's amused chuckle, Steve moves impatiently, ready to exhort them into their vehicles to follow the lead.

"I've got a name," Chin hands Steve a piece of paper, "Sang Min. But..."

As he pauses the three men look up at him, Danny sighing and mumbling under his breath that there's always a _but_. "He runs the island's human import-export business," Chin states seriously, holding Steve's gaze.

"So Hesse could've used him to get on or off the island," Steve nods, a twitch in his jaw betraying the tension that had risen with the thought that they could be too late. But his gut tells him that Hesse is still somewhere here, with all the roadblocks it's definitely harder to organize a quick escape.

"Let's say this guy's for real," Danny chimes in, setting the shave ice on the hood of the Camaro and pulling the T-shirt over his head, sighing with relief, "Still got no reason to tell us where Hesse is."

"We find some leverage," Chin's gaze slides over three faces, before settling back on Steve, "Twist his arm."

"Define leverage," any means are up on the table, Steve is motivated to cross some lines if needed, but any subsequent move has to be taken carefully as its failure might ruin the whole investigation.

Waiting a few seconds, when Steve takes the T-shirt off in one swift move, tossing it along with the shave ice into the nearest bin, Chin smirks slightly, "Simple bait and trap."


	7. Chapter 6

**McGarrett's House,  
Oahu, Hawaii,  
September, 2010**

The chaos of colours, softly swaying in the thick flowery patch by the gate, evokes a small smile on Catherine's face. They bloom beautifully, but the lack of proper care is obvious, a hint of the past glooming around the house and garden. Whether John really didn't have a hand for plants, or the memory of his lost wife was keeping him from changing anything, the bushy mess of blue, white and pinkish heads betrays the hidden story buried deep within the walls of the lovely beach house.

Catherine lets her fingertips brush over the violet petals tickling the inside of her palm, like they're asking to be touched. There's a hint of regret clenching her heart as she looks at the flowery grounds underneath the wooden framed arbour, through which a cobblestone path leads to the porch.

Once again her thoughts run to the fence surrounding the small, blueish house in Coronado.

Not more than a few weeks ago, she was imagining herself and Steve building a big arbour in their garden, under which they could place a table and a few benches. Their backyard is really small, but she could easily picture a patch of herbs just under the kitchen window, blooming bushes of peonies along the fence, grape vines stretching their green withes on the bower, maybe a swing set, where her laughter wouldn't be the only one resounding in the cool air...

A sad tug on her heart disperses that image into a blurry, quickly forgotten dream. Something tells her the destination of their future is no longer connected to Coronado, and the flowers now tickling her hand will be the ones she tends to.

With a shake of her head, Catherine pushes that thought to the back of her mind. Nothing is certain yet, both of them are still trapped in the ongoing nightmare of the presence that ripped through their lives, forcing them to withhold any securities.

Many times they were forced to make abrupt decisions, that's what the Navy required sometimes, but in personal matters they both tried to be cautious. Even the engagement, though unexpected back then, was in fact a step that was thought through thoroughly. And she is certain, that any decision regarding their solid future after these events, will be a compromise for both of them.

"Cath?" Steve's hand touches her back, stirring her from her thoughts. He had been watching her for a few minutes, having paid for the taxi they took from the airport and throwing her duffel bag over his own shoulder.

It feels like being back in this place is as surreal to her as it was for him.

"Sorry," she sighs, turning around to face him, nervously wiping her palms on her pants. "Got a little lost in thoughts," her tiny, sad smile sinks Steve's heart, overwhelming it with the realization of how strongly she experiences everything he's feeling, part of it being her wonderful skills of empathy, but mostly because she cares so much – for him. This home holds only a few summer memories for her, but she remembers every detail and feels the pain, that being here now brings, because it's his heart at stake.

Steve knows the situation isn't easy on her either, maybe it's even worse, having to deal not only with the loss and grief, but most of all putting up with his state of mind, which can be hard to handle when he's being in this constant push and pull between seeking justice and wanting to crumble into pieces. Letting himself tremble within her arms is too easy, too enticing. Less than an hour ago he almost let himself do that, when he picked her up from the airport, but the second the alertness struck, he had pushed her away. It hadn't been harsh, but still it's the avoidance that is tough to deal with sometimes.

So many people accuse him of coldness and the habit of building up walls that can't be taken down, and only Catherine and Freddie stayed by his side, though God knows he has annoyed them with it many times.

And he feels bad, the guilt gnawing at his heart for brushing off her concern when she has asked him about his well-being.

Cath sees right through him and Steve tries to be honest and fully open with her, but his tongue and actions tend to be quicker, therefore the stupid, "Fine," that had sounded colder than needed, hurting him now more than it had pierced her at that moment.

He pours all his effort into the tenderness of each gesture towards her, hoping she won't pull away, punishing him for cutting her out.

To his relief, Catherine keeps close to him, her hand resting on top of his on the drive here, a look of worry cast his way without any further pushing or questioning. He can feel her relaxing into his side now as they take a slow pace down the cobblestone path towards the house, stiffening whenever she feels him tensing.

Pushing himself into the whirlwind of investigation, Steve had avoided being here as much as he could, but had transported all of his stuff from the hotel. It's not easy, he still thinks it would be better for them to stay at the hotel, but there's something about this place that gives him a certain boost of determination. He finds it easier to think, even if each corner is soaked with memories, and the sudden sounds evoke echoes of the gunshot and his own scream. A part of him sees it as a form of self-punishment, forcing himself to stay in a room where his father was killed, so he won't back down, whatever the cost might be.

Having Catherine by his side reminds him that there's a limit to everything. There are costs he doesn't want to pay.

His fingers fumble with the key as he tries to open the door, a myriad of thoughts crossing through his mind, evoking bigger pangs of nervousness. Taking a deep breath, he steadies his hand and gets the door open finally.

A stream of light surges through the ajar door, spreading the dust-filled rays over the cluttered space of living room; in all honesty, Steve has no idea how that happened, because he _never_ leaves a mess. But it's definitely his doing, no second presence that would purposely come to throw all the equipment around. He glances at Catherine as she takes a step in, her eyes scanning the darkened space, expecting to see shock in her eyes. Yet, the way she wraps her fingers around his hand a little tighter, her eyes taking in the sight of various items, indicates she's not surprised, but worried.

The mess is not of clothes thrown around - something that would never happen, unless the clothes were discarded in a hasty race to get each other naked - it's a display of an imperfectly organised operation centre. A variety of weapons on the coffee table, a line of props found at home, but which could be used by a Navy SEAL if needed during an improvised op.

She notices Steve's duffel bag, half-way unpacked, with a neatly folded pile of fresh T-shirts placed next to it on the sofa. He sleeps here, if he sleeps at all. Cath's eyes briefly glance up towards his old bedroom, wondering if he has even stepped inside, or if he has limited his presence to the ground floor.

Then her gaze lands on the spot between the living room and the study, not only clean and shining, but seemingly surrounded by the chaos, cut off from everything that's happening around. She doesn't know the details about John's murder, but it must be the exact spot where it has happened. Not wanting to interfere with this particular place, as if it might suck him into the painful memory, Steve's subconscious had kept him away from it. Or maybe, by some reasoning, he felt like contaminating the scene, even though the CSU had got everything already.

Catherine tugs on Steve's hand abruptly, releasing her fingers from between his only to move her hands around his neck, pulling him down for a hug. A tight warm embrace, which holds a different strength than the long one at the airport. That was the reflection of longing and happiness upon being within each other's arms, while now she gives the best she has to provide him safety, to say without words how she hurts for him.

The first second Steve freezes, he always does, an instinct which even with Catherine makes him need a flash of recognition to let himself relax and melt into her. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he shudders lightly at the feeling of her hand cradling his head, the way his own hand often does to her when she needs comforting. The quivering of his tense muscles betrays the immense amount of pent up sour pain, which hasn't yet dared to spill out.

Catherine's heart already breaks for the outburst that will come soon, not today, but when the wave of adrenaline settles down and the house will be filled with a void, and not the eerily repetitive echo of gunshots.

"So," she clears her throat, when Steve gently pulls away, his hand rubbing hard on his eyes in an attempt to get rid of the stinging tears daring to fall. She knows he needs a distraction now, so her tone aims for the snarky playfulness, which always brings happy crinkles to his face, "If you think I am going to help you clean all of that, you are wrong."

Steve smiles at her, the relief and appreciation clear in his eyes. "Wouldn't even dare to ask you," he says, a grin spreading on his face when she snorts at him, because _yes_, he _would _try to.

As he settles her duffel bag next to his own on the couch, Catherine lets her eyes scan each of the items precisely spread around, hoping to recognize what kind of plan exactly has developed in her husband's head. Her gaze falls on the small computer on the desk, one she recognizes immediately as part of the field equipment, set with satellite phone and undoubtedly connected to the secure line.

"Steve," she draws his name out hesitantly, eyes not leaving the computer screen, now displaying some man's files and a table of processing data next to it, "Is that the..."

"I called in for a favor," he is quick to explain, knowing it only slightly minimizes her worry, because if someone finds out he is using military equipment from the Pearl base on a civilian case, which he shouldn't be even part of, heads will roll.

"I have it till the end of the week, but I hope to return it sooner," the flash of determination is back in his eyes as he moves towards Cath and steers her closer to the desk, "Chin should be setting up a meeting with a source as we speak." She notices the instinctive twitch of his fingers against his pocket, like he's eager to finally take that call and run out of the house. A part of her hopes it won't ring too soon, taking him away from her just when they reunited, but she also understands the sooner the case is solved, the sooner they can have much needed time alone.

Nodding shortly, knowing he won't give her much detail, she motions toward the screen, "So who is that?"

There's something familiar about that face, a flash of certainty that she has seen him, or at least that photo, before. Catherine's mind is full of data, details and many faces she has seen in the files she has been working on. She has to memorise many of them, sometimes a split of a second when going through surveillance is the most crucial. That man has probably appeared in one of a thousand files, but it hasn't clicked yet.

"Jovan Etienne," he answers, stepping closer and hunching over the desk, "File says he worked for the Russians as a computer programmer in SVR," Steve's brows knit slightly, a small sign of the thought that invades the analytical process going on in his brain. Cath notices the way the muscles in his arms flex, there's a twitch in his jaw and his eyes darken as he spits out, "He was here when my father was murdered."

The struggle to keep composure and not let himself be taken over by rage strains his whole body, his fingers pressing so hard into the wooden surface, she almost believes it's cracking under the force. But it lasts only a few seconds, a deep breath that he takes slowly helping him regain control. Shaking his head slightly, to get rid of the image that suddenly pushed its way into his mind, Steve focuses on the file.

"I found his palm prints in the study, partial boot prints in here," with a wave of his hand he points at the clean space on the floor.

Catherine looks at him, frowning, "Wait a minute, how do you know the boot print didn't belong to Hesse?"

"Hesse wears a size 11," Steve's answer is simple and sure, a logical observation of detail, which surely got omitted by the CSU.

"Like yours," she nods, not even remotely surprised Steve knows the size of Hesse's boots. Over six years of chasing two men, every small, seemingly irrelevant element has its own great value, helping predict some of the possible moves the gun dealer can make. People are creatures of habit, and even if they cover their tracks meticulously, the nature of their routines can become their weakness.

Steve averts his gaze from the screen to look at her, his brows rising in astonishment, "You know my shoe size?" Before she can answer, or even glare at him tellingly, he chuckles a response to himself, "Of course you do."

The assurance of it not being only the spouse knowledge gained over the years they've been together, but a reflection of how everything about him matters to her, makes him smile. There's rarely a time to appreciate such small detail, but each time it tugs on his heart with a warm wave.

"I know your _every _size," a sly smile curving Cath's lips matches the mischievous sparkles in her eyes, evoking an instant rush of blood through Steve's body.

"Stop talking dirty, Lieutenant, you're distracting me," he smirks, letting his eyes focus on her lips for longer than needed.

Falling back into their comfortable teasing pattern is so easy, so enticing, and God knows it's been too long since he felt her skin underneath his fingers. With all the adrenaline and tension coursing through his body, the physical reactions jolt with quick, needy urges, displaying a variety of vivid images of Catherine's body spread out on this desk. But it isn't only the longing and love, it's the circumstances that are making it more of a need to get rid of all the frustration than making love to his wife, which brings a pang of annoyance with himself.

It's not like the sex was never instrumental or provoked by a rush of need, but Steve doesn't like the feeling of it at the moment, with all of his instincts and actions being focused on the task. A small voice in his head suggests he's slipping on his humanity and softness, the parts to which he always desperately holds on to.

Flashing her a lopsided grin, he leans in for a quick kiss, before retreating back to the previous stance, his head titling to the side.

"The prints I found were smaller," he explains, "And Hesse gets his footwear custom-made. Direct-injected polyurethane mid-sole with a nitrile rubber outsole."

"You developed some shoe kink that I need to know about?" Catherine laughs, a sound so soft and natural that it widens the stupid smile on Steve's face even further.

"So," she points to the screen, "You're trying to locate Etienne? Make a recognition of possible places he could be, or crimes he can be linked to?"

Steve nods, his eyes drifting to the right side of the screen, watching the lines in a column appear and disappear in a slow process of analysing files and links stored on a military server.

"Have you considered searching for Etienne's counterparts?" Catherine bends lower, her face level with the screen, "You got the link here on the island as to who helps Hesse escape, but it's possible Etienne has reached for his resources too. Also, if we track who he's been working with before, it might give us a lead to Hesse's contacts overseas."

Steve stares at her for a long moment, watching the delicate profile in the dimmed daylight, few strands of hair sticking to her sweaty neck, but most of all he's amazed by the way she easily falls into the rhythm of the association process. The train of her thoughts builds a vast, complicated web of possible links and outcomes, scheduling the dangers and obstacles. A similar way of thinking was taught to him in the SEALs, to recognize and assess outcomes of taken actions, minimizing the risks, but with Catherine it's not only the experience and years of Intel work. He has learned about the brilliance of her skills on that very first assignment, quickly understanding why his commanding officer appointed a young ensign to a mission so important. Over the years he got used to that, but it still amazes him at moments, igniting pure admiration towards her mind.

"Good idea," he nods, "But most of it is contained in the classified section. I can't access all of them without raising some flags," a frown of annoyance creases his forehead, once again it feels like someone is throwing logs under his feet and closes the doors, "Maybe I could ask the Governor to..."

"You need a few minutes of break," Cath's hand rests atop his, giving a gentle squeeze, which seeps warmth through the strained muscles.

"And a beer," she adds, smile spreading on her lips as he looks up at her, his lost gaze focusing on her bright face, "We both do. And I could also use a shower," her nose scrunches up cutely, "So why don't you grab some bottles and I'll meet you up in the back in a few?"

Steve opens his mouth to protest that he is fine, but she seals his lips with a tender kiss that melts any stubbornness. The tip of her nose brushes affectionately against his, Catherine's soft mirth evoking a broad grin on his face.

Watching her run up the stairs, he stands frozen in place for a few minutes, until the noise of the water fills the silence. He knew her presence will bring that calming wave, it had been this way since her weakened body held his broken one through the deserted wilderness, trembling hands tenderly combing through his hair as she tried to talk some courage into both of them. But it's an immense relief, how suddenly everything seems more bearable. The pain is still here and the screams seem to be creeping up on him from every corner of this house, but now there's also a feeling of safety, hands that may caress him to sleep, adamant support that will help him get up, if he falls.

With a shake of his head, Steve gets himself back into reality, stepping into the kitchen to get the beer and then heads out through the French door into the sun soaked backyard.

The fresh, warm breeze caresses his face as he walks toward the deckchairs at the brim of the garden, where the dark, juicy green of grass disperses into the sandy beach. The sand squishes under his boots, a sound that reminds him of agonizingly long runs, all soaked and rolled in sand, down the Coronado beach during the BUDs. Without the harsh voice yelling at them and the burning strain in his muscles, the memory quickly dissolves into a different one, where all the noises resounded as if through a haze, blurred and barely recognized by his dizzy, feverish mind.

It's all calm now, no need for him to rush down the shore, or to slump his heavy body into that smaller posture.

Steve closes his eyes at the sudden thought piercing through his mind, clenching his heart with the newly found string of guilt. How often has he been a burden to Catherine?

He had started in a very literal way, his heavy, wounded body crushing her as they had stumbled down on the rocky ground, when she tried to get them safely through the unknown territory. Then the whole baggage of emotional chaos, which - to be completely fair - they both were responsible for, or maybe neither of them was. And when it seemed everything had finally settled, the last years burdened only with the distance and longing, his father's death doubled the heaviness and pressured them both.

With a sigh he opens the bottle and takes a long swig. He will not go down that road - the slope of self-blaming and doubts, pushing people away just to test them, to check if he's still worthy of their attention. He won't do that to Catherine. Long ago he had realized there's probably nothing in the world he could do or say to make her stop loving him.

"What are you thinking about?" Catherine's voice surprises him. He hadn't hear her footsteps, deep in his thoughts and the faint echo of repeated ocean waves.

"Oh," Steve stirs and hands her the other bottle, "Nothing much. Just... some realizations."

His gaze runs slowly down and up her body, taking in the sight of her damp hair, thin trickles of water soaking through the navy blue T-shirt. As his eyes fall on the black running shorts, the knot on them tightly tied to keep them from sliding down her butt, he cracks a chuckle. "Are those mine?" he points at the slightly worn out pair.

"Nope," Catherine replies, smirking as she takes a small gulp of beer, "Marital property."

Steve's laugh is wholehearted, though not loud, just light-hearted. Cath feels like some of the bitterness residing in her stomach melts upon seeing the twinkles in his eyes, the crinkles in the corners.

"That's convenient," Steve snorts, the bottle pressed to his lips.

She shrugs nonchalantly, hand combing through her wet strands, "You can wear my clothes, if you feel like it. I have some pieces that match your eyes," she grins slyly as he rolls his eyes.

Giving him a moment to relish in the carefree, playful scrap of conversation, Catherine shifts her gaze to look at the vast, shimmering glass of ocean, with all its shades of blue and turquoise. However easy and tempting it is to fall into the avoidance, letting themselves enjoy only the happy tones and teasing, it's not the good way to go through it all. Something they both have learned the harder way, through the therapy process and experience. They also grew to realize that setting their own pace for everything is the key to dealing with problems, so she doesn't press him, but leaves the open window for him to pick up whenever he's ready.

A deep sigh escaping Steve's lips indicates he wants to tell her something, or a part of him wants to, while the other stubbornly struggles. Cath turns her head, looking up at him and waiting.

"We've been through a lot," he says ruefully, slouching slightly, his foot kicking in the sand. Another sigh follows and he lifts his head, eyes focused on the crisp line of the horizon. "I mean you and me, both, we've been through so much shit. I thought there's a limit to the pain we have to go through, but life just fucks it all up again," he takes a long sip, downing one third of the bottle in one gulp.

"True," Cath admits, stepping closer, so their arms almost brush, "And I know at the moment only the bad things are visible, but Steve, we've had so many good things happen to us too."

She takes the beer from his hand and puts the bottle down along with her own on the chair, reaching her hands to touch him. A gentle touch, clasping his palm between her hands, thumbs rubbing slow circles over his wrist as she kisses the inked skin of his arm that peeks from underneath the sleeve of his T-shirt.

"_You _are my good thing," she mutters, lips brushing against the tattoo.

Her eyes close, a tiny sigh of content bubbling out of her mouth, when Steve turns his head to place a kiss atop hers.

They both groan in unison, when the shrilling ringtone pierces the air. Cath presses her forehead to Steve's arm, fingers wrapping tighter around his hand, while he reaches his free hand to pick up the phone. She doesn't pay much attention to the short conversation, a splash of images whirls in her mind, provoked by worry and sudden bad feeling. It fills her mouth with bitter taste, quickening her pulse to the rhythm of thoughts whispering how bad this all can go. Pushing it to the back of her mind, burying it under a pile of evidence of Steve's skills and practicality, she takes a deep breath and looks up at him in time to see him disconnecting the call.

"Chin set the meeting. Williams and Hanamoa will pick me up in a few," he informs her, and there's a quivering hint of mixed emotions resounding in his voice. Readiness, impatience, but also a glint of fear, that is both a good and a bad sign.

"You have to go," Catherine nods her head, "Just, you know, be careful."

He always is, a doubt never crossed her mind in that matter, but she needs to say those words, even if they're a nature of habit that sank deep into their long distance phone calls.

A ghost of a smile faintly curves Steve's lips, his eyes lighting up for a second, flashing pure love and gratitude. The gasp tickles on Cath's palette as the sudden kiss cuts off her breath. A short surge of intense emotion, Steve pours both happiness and fear into it. "I will," he murmurs against her lips, stealing another, much softer kiss, before he leaves.

Catherine watches his hurried strides toward the house, her eyes fixated on the open French door even as his silhouette disappears completely from view. She stays motionless when the sound of the engine fades, indicating he has driven away. Knowing he's getting himself into a dangerous situation has never been easy, but it appears to be harder now, when she physically felt his body moving away, than when it was via the phone. And staying behind, having nothing to do, is definitely not helping her mind.

It's not only the worry that eats her up. If that was the problem, they would never make it work, being paralyzed with fear each time one of them was in danger - which meant basically all time. Catherine needs a purpose, to feel she's doing something, helping.

And as her gaze lingers on the house, she realizes there is something she can do.

She takes the bottles and heads back to the house, squinting her eyes at the semi-darkness in the living room. Pushing a chair to the desk, she sits down, rubbing her neck nervously. The voice of reason tells her it's a risky idea, one that Steve himself might advise her not to follow, but the weight of arguments supporting the decision is stronger at the moment.

"There are things more important than a career," she mutters to herself as her fingers start typing on the keyboard.


	8. Chapter 7

Oh dear, it's been long, I know. Over a month, almost two actually, for which I am sorry. If anyone thought that I abandoned the story, that's definitely not the case! The life's been busy and hectic - for me, as well for my amazing beta, Trish. But not even for a second have I thought about not continuing the fic. Thank you all for your patience and I hope I won't put it to the test in the future ;)

To compensate for the waiting, I tried to write a quite long chapter.

Thank you for all the lovely messages, support and loving Steve and Cath as much as I do!

* * *

**Iolani Palace,  
Oahu, Hawaii,  
September, 2010**

"Are you sure?" Steve shifts his gaze from one man to the other, a hint of sincere regret in his voice, "You would be a great addition to the team. Both of you."

He proposed a permanent place in the newly set up team for the two detectives, who had been kind of forced to put up with him for the past few days, yet it turned out they got along quite well and while Steve sensed he could have had trouble dealing with them individually, as partners, Meka and Danny were great and more than bearable. They balanced and enhanced each other's strong points, reminding him distinctively of his and Freddie's friendship and partnership.

Having them as a part of this task force, or whatever they were about to become, would be a great benefit.

Also, in some not fully understood way, their company provides a faint, but very much welcome sense of safety.

It's not the same prominence as the feeling of complete vulnerability, that is not a weakness, when he's with Catherine.

Not even coming close to the value of assurance and constant that Freddie brings.

But nonetheless it's a feeling of slowly building dependence, which could at some point become trust, one you put in your brothers in arms, trusting them with your life and making the best decisions in dangerous circumstances.

"We're sure," Meka nods, as his partner, Danny, sways back and forth on his heels, his gaze shifting curiously around, taking in the sight of the vast glass space cluttered with boxes. The Governor appointed half of the upper floor as the new Task Force's headquarters. It's impressive, also intriguing, because however much this state has improved in the spectrum of providing resources for the law enforcement, no department got anything half the cost of the equipment that is set to be installed here.

Maybe the Governor thinks of it as a good PR move, gaining her points for the next year's election. Establishing a high quality task force to not only keep the appearance of development of the fiftieth state, but a flash of hard approach towards crime adds to the politically impressive image.

Danny, however, can sense some problems arising with the new group of seemingly higher clearance and means. Not only he senses a fishy second bottom in it all, but also as a cop - a white cop from the mainland, for that matter - he knows how suspicious and cagey the HPD is going to be. Forcing them not only to accept a suddenly established task force, but clearly aggrandizing it above the local police, is bound to evoke trouble. While Danny is the last to judge, at least he tries not to, having a dishonored Chin Ho Kelly here is going to make things even worse.

It's only one of the reasons he prefers not to jump on that horse.

"Yeah," he chimes in, "We, mere mortals, have kids waiting for us at home and garbage to be taken out. I doubt there's a time for that in your, ah, unconventional, overdriven style of work," he grins at Steve.

"You liked it and you know it," McGarrett smirks at the memory of Williams' shriek, when he swivelled the camaro in a rapid pace, before driving it directly onto a ship. From a passer-by's point of view, or - in this case - also from the passenger's perspective, it might have seemed reckless and too risky, possible only in action movies. Steve, however, was taught to assess and overcome. He rarely used cars on a daily basis during his missions, but basic knowledge of physics and the car's capability prompted his decision to dive it, crashing with minor impact on the boat.

Meka, who has an equally colourful compartment of curses as his partner, spluttered them along, but definitely was less angry with the turn of events. He points it out with a shrug, "I kinda liked it," before chuckling at Danny's indulgence.

"Do not encourage him," Williams shakes his head, "He'll be driving cars through rooftops and shopping malls, pursuing international terrorists."

Steve quirks his brow, half amused and half irritated. As far as he had managed to get to know these two and come to terms with how emotional and expressive Danny Williams is, the constant implication that he's being reckless and irresponsible becomes a jab, which irks him. People generally tend to judge him based on the resources he uses, which often are out of grasp for their logic and experience of average situations. Steve is trained to deal with events in which a civilian, or typical police officer is likely to lose all the ground and find themselves helpless. Pushing the boundaries, reaching for the very extreme and unconventional means, are the methods he's familiar with. The fact they wouldn't think of doing it that way, doesn't mean he's not doing what is right.

Besides, it's obvious the decision has been the good one, though he aches all over his body from the bruises, the cut on his forehead still stings.

"First of all, I think you're exaggerating," Steve looks at him pointedly, "Secondly, if there's a terrorist on the island, where your daughter lives, wouldn't you want me to go after them? Even if it means getting beyond the frames of your usual rules?"

It's easy for people, not only civilians, many military workers, who hadn't been out in the field, to share the same approach - to criticize and judge the seemingly brutal, undesired ways of dealing that special forces execute. Yet, when the situation concerns them, or their beloved ones, they suddenly give the blessing for every broken law, if it only serves the purpose. To be honest, Steve is really fed up and downright hurt for being treated like that.

Both Williams and Hanamoa straighten, somewhat alerted by the distinctive harsh tone in McGarrett's voice. His face remains relaxed, but the vibe of it clearly points at the rising annoyance. Danny takes his hands out of his pockets, making an open apologizing gesture towards Steve, "Fair point."

"But, to be honest," he adds after a second, "I really don't find myself or _my _car doing the same. I'm more of a stay-on-the-ground kind of guy," Danny grins and this time Steve chuckles in response.

"That's an understatement," Meka smiles, fondly glancing at his partner. His gaze shifts to the side, looking across the box-clattered space to one of the empty offices, where two freshly nominated task force members are unpacking bags of take out.

Kalakaua's happy squeal when the food arrived was the sound that got his attention. During the whole hectic and dangerous ordeal, he didn't have much time or opportunity to dwell on Chin Ho Kelly's presence, but for sure feels conflicted about him. The pressure of guilt that stains the previously glorious career of Lieutenant Kelly is a salt in his eye, feeding the constant distrust toward the man, who once was his colleague. It's hard getting past that, even if he did a great job on this case, there's too many conflicted images clashing in Hanamoa's head and he isn't sure if he'd be able to work out in the field with Chin. At least not yet.

"Anyway," Steve's voice draws his attention back, "I thought you might be reluctant to the idea of working here full time, but I really liked working with you," he says sincerely, "That's why I talked to the chief..."

"Chief? The chief of police, you mean?" Danny screeches, suddenly feeling anxious about what's about to come next. What did this crazy SEAL came up with?

The grin on Steve's face is cheeky, a mischievous glint in his eyes only raising Danny's impatience, filling his head with dozen of ideas, one worse than the other. "Mhm," he nods, purposely waiting a few more seconds, before revealing, "I asked for you to be liaisons between HPD and the task force."

"Sneaky bastard," Williams mutters, but he's shaking his head with a growing smile.

This doesn't sound like the worst scenario, though a part of him is slightly hesitant as to how very possible it is, that the simple co-working can suck him into a haze of the most dangerous, insane cases. Hanamoa's chuckle around a juicy, "Son of a bitch," causes Steve to puff up, even prouder of his little conspiracy. The fact that both detectives are more amused than actually offended by him going behind their backs, makes him sigh in relief, as for a while he had pondered if they would be angry at him. Which, to be fair, would be understandable. Steve felt they weren't that eager to follow his methods in the field, but the significant ease with which he feels around them made him cling to it.

While trust issues have embroidered themselves deep into Steve's being, probably forever damaging a part of his approach toward people, there's also a need for human contact, for keeping close to those, who somehow make him feel safe.

Something just tells him he should try having both detectives in his life, even if it's on a small scale, but having the ground to feel stable in this somewhat new environment is crucial, especially considering his decision...

The flash of that realization pulls on a string connected to the bucket of chaotic fears and thoughts, which have been accumulating in his head since he got the information about the failed attempt to find Hesse's body in the water. Steve's gut clenches, filling his mouth with bitter fear, his fingers clench slightly, itching to reach for the phone that once again buzzes in his pocket. At the same time he can't answer it, he cannot make himself talk to her now, even if a part of him knows Catherine is worried sick.

"You know what?" Danny huffs, clasping his hands together, "I need a beer. And you, Steven," he points at the man, whose appearance still holds the signs of a bloody fight and shoot out from hours ago, "The beers are on you. I have a feeling you will be buying a lot of them in the future."

"I can live with that," Steve laughs, quickly taking out his phone and rejecting the third, or maybe the fourth incoming call from Catherine. "But," he sighs, looking at them, "Not today, sorry. I still have some things to deal with. Rain check?"

Meka nods at that, reaching out his hand to shake McGarrett's. The grip is firm, but bears no display of power, it's more of a respectful gesture, which Steve gladly welcomes. When Danny shakes his hand, it comes with a teasing comment, "But you will get yourself your own car, I hope?" He croaks amusedly, when Steve rolls his eyes at the next comment, "And I mean a car, not a tank."

Steve watches as the two men exit the headquarters, a space, which he suddenly realizes, for now looks more improvised and chaotic than TOC in the middle of the war-ruined town in the Middle East. The sheets of glass and freshly painted blue walls are impressive, as well as the vast space and equipment that have already been installed, but everything else seems so out of order. Stacks of boxes, containing who knows what, are taking up half of the floor space, the offices are still unfurnished.

Being here evokes a strange, yet quite pleasant feeling. Steve likes to be on the move, changing places, being active and out in nature, but he liked his time in the Navy Intel, where most of his days were spent in a small space with a computer in front of him.

Though, there's no doubt that the longing for a place he could settle and the perspective of coming every evening to the same home, grew in him since he and Catherine got together.

The memory of her face, so beautiful and glowing with the radiant smile, when he lead her through the door of their small, then freshly-bought house in Coronado, punches his guts with guilt.

The rising fear of facing her, now spreading the blame even stronger through his veins, comes not only from the guilt of rejecting her calls, making her worry, but mostly from the news he has to share with her. He wants to smack himself hard, a brave SEAL who is ready to enter the darkest of jungles, becomes a coward when it comes to probably crushing his wife's dreams for their future, at least the nearest future.

Steve knows he should move his ass and get back to his father's house, but he can't make himself do that yet. The sound of laughter coming from the office to the right is a most welcomed reason to stay here a little longer. After all, they kind of closed their first case _and _officially became a Governor's special task force, neither of which they would have thought possible more than twenty four hours ago. This deserves some small celebration.

Kono beams up at him, when he enters the office, motioning with the sauce covered chopsticks to the variety of boxes spread on the only table. "Lots to choose from, boss," she grins at him, stuffing another baozi into her mouth, the juicy, rich filling threatening to fall down, but she quickly catches it with her tongue.

At the sound of that word, Steve tenses involuntarily, mostly of shock, never before has he been called that. A boss. His SEAL team, whenever he lead them, called him either with the official, procedural response of _Yes, Sir_, his rank, or simply by his last name when they were off duty. Occasionally, the silly nickname Freddie and Nick gave him resurfaced, but the word "boss" never appeared. It feels somewhat weird, even uncomfortable to be addressed so, an irrational part of him takes it as a sign of transition to civilian life, to which his Navy heart doesn't want to fully consent.

But the decision has been made and Steve is too stubborn to withdraw from it now.

Chin regards him for a long moment, eyeing him up and down, taking in the tension still flexing the muscles, though all common sense suggests by now McGarrett should be finally relaxing. Disappearance of the dead body is worrying and Chin has no doubt that Steve knows Hesse best to anticipate the worst of it, but all the evidence points at the great success they achieved today - saving those poor girls and their families, shutting down a major line of human trafficking. On top of that, Steve got to face Victor Hesse and shoot him down. Body or no body, the man should feel at least small ounce of satisfaction and relief.

It comes to Chin's mind that the unyielding tension might be connected to the core of the whole ordeal - John McGarrett's death. Chasing after Hesse had its side motivation, postponing the final goodbye with his father. Now, that the dust settles down, the hardest part awaits Steve at that small, lovely beach house, probably freezing him in place at the perspective of getting back there.

Especially that nothing beside emptiness and echoes of the past fills the space, haunting Steve.

"Listen, Steve," he sets the red box with rice aside, "There's plenty of room at my place, you're most welcome," he holds the man's gaze, hoping it comes out the most sincere, with no hint of pity, which he suspects McGarrett wouldn't want to hear. "You don't have to stay at home alone." There was no time or occasion to get to know Steve well, yet, something tells him he actually doesn't like being alone, not in situations of that kind.

A surge of unexpected warmth spreads through Steve's veins, gripping at his heart with the thoughtfulness and sincerity of Chin's proposal. They might not be so close yet, but the feeling like friendship with this man is kind of priceless. The trust John McGarrett put in him proves its worth to have him by his side. The selfless invite evokes a smile on Steve's face, his eyes glinting gratefully.

"Thanks," he croaks out, his voice slightly quivering, "Really, thank you, but I will be fine."

_And not alone_.

Once again he catches himself being conflicted with the perspective of going back to his family's house, where Catherine awaits him. With the tiredness and worry still trapping him in a firm, cold grasp, he dreams of nothing more than to let himself crumble in Cath's arms, curling around her in hope for a few decent hours of sleep, before he has to make the final funeral arrangements. That aspect is also blocking his moves, he's still not fully grasping that shattering thought, scared of seeing the casket lowered to the ground. Picking one out, organizing the ceremony and some service afterwards, it's beyond his capability at the moment. He could ask Cath for help, he knows that, but he already feels bad with burdening her with all of it.

Then there's the inevitable, having to tell her of his decision, which he had made without talking to her first.

It raises the guilt, understandably, as so far they always consulted every step that concerned their personal life.

Catherine provides a voice of reason, showing him possibilities and solutions of which he hadn't thought earlier. Yet, this time Steve doesn't want to search for other methods, he needs to be here and investigate that rabbit hole.

Something tells him Cath has suspected it might come to this from the very first phone call he made after landing, but he still dreads facing her.

Steve's about to reject another call, that has his phone relentlessly vibrating in his pocket, but this time the picture displayed on the screen is not of Catherine. His eyes widen in surprise, when he looks at his own face, cheeks full of food and a smile on his lips, right next to Freddie's goofy, laughing face, smears of ketchup in the corners of his mouth. With a quick apologetic murmur, Steve excuses himself and walks out, directing his steps to the nearest empty room.

"Hey, Bubba," Steve's shocked by his own voice, happiness and emotion so clear in it that he couldn't cover them with any silly remark or teasing.

The last time he heard his friend's voice, they were ambushed in South Korea, bullets scattering around, wounded bodies covering the ground. Freddie had already been injuried then, quickly patched after the ordeal in North Korea, but the grasps of consciousness awoke at the sound of gunfight around him. With a hoarse voice he demanded of Steve to give him a gun. _Stubborn shitweed_, Steve has to smile to himself at the memory, though the situation back then was no fun. It's the realization that he would do the same, probably even try to move and rush into fight. Two peas in a pod they are, that's for sure.

"Steve, hey," Freddie sounds quite good, like his usual self, though there's a distinctive breathless pause, reminding Steve of the pulmonary wound he sustained.

"It's good to hear you, buddy," though Catherine told him how well their friend is doing and that he will be fine, it's only now that it sinks in fully, causing Steve to sigh with relief.

For a moment he paces around the empty room, trying to find a space for himself, but aside from a few boxes and walls, there's nothing here yet. The furniture was said to be delivered and placed by the end of the week. So he chooses the blue wall by the big window, leaning against it, tucking his free hand into his pocket.

"You too, mate," comes a light response, hinted with a chuckle, "At first I wanted to wait a few more days before I called. I heard you're in a chaotic frenzy of pursuing after that son of a bitch. For which I am so fucking pissed that I can't be there with you," a genuine irritation resounds in his words.

"Well, you wouldn't be much of help, if you're about to cough your own lungs out," Steve points out, "But having you here, we would definitely catch him sooner."

Partly, he is glad that Freddie couldn't come to Hawaii with him. The state Steve's been in those past few days isn't one he would want to show his friend, it was already hard having Cath sense his distress and suspect the straws of humanity slipping away, leaving him with his anger and relentlessness. Besides, more than his best friend's support, he needs him to get back to health.

Suddenly his mind picks up the tiny detail in Freddie's previous words, "Hold on. So if you wanted to wait a few days more, why are you calling now?"

It's not really their thing to be calling just to chat, unless some serious game is going on, or one of them has fucked something up in their relationship and calls to wallow in self-pity. Steve is sure that it's unlikely for Freddie to make any mistake now, since he's stuck in a hospital bed and Kelly is there by his side. Though, maybe he came up with some resolute idea of getting back to full duty, which - considering his near death injury - could grate her. That could be the case, yet something tells Steve it's not. His own annoyance slightly rises, suspecting he's going to be the one getting his head washed.

"Because, obviously, you are acting like an asshole, Smooth Dog," Freddie doesn't even beat around the bush, "Can't you answer your phone when your _wife _is calling you? Seriously, you're in no mood for talking, fine, but last she knew you were off after Hesse. Dude, let her know that at least you're breathing or something."

"She called you?" Steve merely whispers, the anger quickly dispersing into guilt and sadness upon realizing how he had hurt Catherine.

"She did," comes the harsh answer, "She figured you're okay, because you keep rejecting the calls. Suspecting you're dodging any interaction with her, she called me to check up on you, so she at least knows her husband is alive. Alive dickhead, may I add."

Through all the years Freddie has known the two of them, it always seemed that communication was never an issue between them. Sure, they both had their phases of withdrawing and shutting out, yet somehow, even without words, they communicated with each other. Though, he suspects, they have their worse moments too and he just got intertwined in one of them. Being Steve's friend, he's ready to have his back even in some silly spouse fight, but not when it appears to be a situation where Steve is harming himself. No one is as good for him and for the demons gnawing at his inside as Catherine is, so if he's about to shut himself in some dark spot of chaotic emotions, avoiding Cath, Freddie is ready to smack him hard and point out there's a woman who gets all of that and with whom Steve feels the most safe.

A deep sigh that resounds on the line is followed by a soft, muffled sound. Freddie is not sure, but it seems to be a sniffle.

"I'm sorry," Steve mumbles, his foot nervously kicking at the floor, gaze lingering on his shoes, like a scolded child close to tears. Freddie knows that the apology is not entirely directed at him, for being included in the situation, but addressed at Catherine, even if she's not personally there to hear it.

Hart sighs as well, his voice turning softer and calmer, "You should say it to her in person, Steve."

"I can't," he shakes his head, abruptly throwing it back, hitting the wall behind him, "I mean, I will, but I can't right now. Not with what I've done."

"What, you lost some part of your body, she likes very much?" Freddie snorts, for a second it brings a smile to Steve's face, but it quickly fades. "Man, you know there's nothing in this world you could do that'd make Cath hate you. Seriously, what is it?"

Steve's fears never reached the exaggerated version, where she would actually hate him, but the truth is that his actions will result in anger, maybe even some disappointment and it always pains him to see it in her eyes. Even if he feels like it's the right decision to make.

He knows Catherine is looking forward to coming back to Coronado, which they had planned for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Though she didn't start the procedure yet, they have been talking about her applying for a position at the base, or retiring, so she could take the first step of settling down fully, with him following in a few years.

Now he turns it upside down, being the first one to choose a land and some sort of stability, but not in the verse they've been dreaming about.

Leading a task force and following the leads on his father's murder, may not necessarily mean their future is bound to be connected with Hawaii, but it pushes Coronado into the limbo. And it hurts him too, to think of the home they've started building there. All the meaningful memories they made in that small house, as well as the whole history of their relationship unfolding in the sunkissed spots of Coronado.

"I shot Hesse," Steve states, but there's no satisfaction in his voice, "We got him, we fought and I shot him down."

There's a pause before Freddie erupts in a somewhat relieved excitation, "Shit, man, that's good. I mean, you got the bastard, that should be good news."

"There's no body," though usually Steve isn't the one to be pessimistic or expect the worst, he has his instincts high and working, not haunting him, but logically displaying the realization that Victor Hesse is not really dead.

Rubbing his hand over his face, Steve tries to ease the tension that pulses now in his temples and evokes slight throbbing in his head. "Meaning, he's not dead," he continues, "And that this is not over. Which means-" Steve pauses, for the first time voicing his decision out loud, "I can't leave. Not yet."

Freddie processes his friend's words, trying to analyse all of the implications this brings. "You are going to stay there? For how long? You won't get that much of leave, Steve-"

"I'm pulling to the reserves."

The long silence that stretches tormentingly, signifies how shocking and unbelievable his decision is. Even to Steve himself. His throat clenches as he blurts out those words, part of him protesting in panic against such change. It's so different than the reaction upon previously made plans to settle down in a few years. That scenario considered him still active, but as an instructor at the base, with occasional missions, if he was called. The path he turned onto right now seems to violently rip him away from the life and duty he had chosen, leaving an open wound, that he knows will often sting. At least in the nearest future.

"You're serious," Freddie speaks finally, his voice dull and low, as if the strike got him breathless, "You really want to do that. But you are a SEAL, Steve, it's a part of you. Are you sure this is the way you want to end your career in the Navy?"

"I'm not ending it," he sighs and closes his eyes, because _damn _this is hard. And if it is this hard now, talking to his friend, having that conversation with Catherine is going to be even worse. "I was never about promotions, you know that, so losing the perspective of gaining the full Commander isn't bothering me." Honestly, he can admit the thought of promotion entered his mind maybe twice over the past years, but he never acted upon it, or searched for ways to achieve that. The missions and training, it was all to serve, not to gain.

"I know that," Steve has to smile at the sincerity in Freddie's voice, "It's just weird to think of you as a civilian. Navy is in your blood."

"And it still will be," he reassures his friend, touched with how much he's concerned for Steve's adjustment to a life so disconnected from the one he knew so far. "Listen, Bubba, I couldn't just get back to active duty while knowing there are so many dark spots surrounding my father's death. It's not only about catching Hesse. He might've had pulled the trigger, but it wasn't his doing. A retaliation for me? You have to admit, it's bullshit. It wouldn't play out like that," Steve takes another deep sigh breath, once again bumping the back of his head onto the wall, but it doesn't sort out his thoughts, unfortunately.

Both he and Catherine had come to the same conclusion, that someone else was pulling the strings and another agenda is intertwined somewhere in it.

What she hasn't yet learned, is the existence of a red tool box, that is strongly connected, though Steve doesn't know to what exactly. But he suspects its content is the lead to what has really happened.

"I can't leave those loose ends, Fred, you know me," Steve's stubbornness, combined with devotion to those who he loves and cares about, makes it impossible to walk away from that case, "I _need _to find who's behind it. Especially considering how ruthless it all was. If it's somehow connected to me, or my family, it concerns not only me... I can't be halfway across the world on a black op, while someone might be targeting my sister or my wife."

Steve can't see it, but his friend nods in silence, understanding more than it might seem. Freddie knows Steve, however shocking his decision is, it's also not that surprising. Mostly, it's the realization a great leader no longer will be out in the field, that has him stupefied. The motivation behind this move Freddie understands, expressly knowing how deeply responsible Steve feels, so often taking too much of the burden and blame on his shoulders. Whether it's John, who got himself in some sort of trouble, or the outcome of Steve's work, the hard impact can be only the first blow and the instinct tells Steve to prepare for possible following. He wouldn't be able to get much resources when on duty, even if he can charm his way to gain a few favors. Working from the settled base and having access to the evidence, John's findings and contacts, is the correct preparation.

Though, it doesn't help much with a surge of sadness seeping through, similar to when they graduated Academy and weren't sure what would come next. Then, however, there was more excitement, now there's an uncertain, surreal life waiting for both of them. Freddie won't make it back to SEALs, he slowly gets used to that perspective, but now also his best friend is pulling out to the reserves, both of them rapidly falling through a rabbit's hole.

"Steve," pondering further on that topic is of no use, Freddie recognizes when his friend's decision is solid and final, so he pokes at the aspect that definitely needs to be smacked into this stubborn head.

"Go home, buddy. Go to Catherine," he can understand the fear of having to tell his wife something so life-changing, but he also knows that postponing it only makes things worse. And he already pissed her off with rejecting her calls.

The attempt to protest, coming up with an excuse, is cut short by Freddie, his voice harsher this time, "Man up, shitweed. I get that it will be a hard conversation, plus you will get your ass kicked for those calls, but..." there's a little sigh, after which his tone comes out much softer, "It's Catherine. She will understand and she still will love your sorry ass."

A bittersweet chuckle escapes Steve's lips, his mouth quirks into a small smile.

* * *

**McGarrett's house,  
Oahu, Hawaii**

The black surface reflects flashes of light and her own tired face as she looks, once again, at the screen of her phone. After few hours of relentless waiting, she stopped checking if he called back, only keeping track of the passing time.

Concern is a part of their life, certainly deeply embroidered into their relationship. Having it at bay and managing to control instinctive behaviour has become one of the polished skills. It's not the worry of possible injuries Steve might've sustained, though even the smallest wound always grips her heart with sadness, that has her on pins and needles for the whole day. She knows Steve assesses safety and is not risking his or other's lives in a reckless pursuit, any injuries are an outcome of rapidly changing circumstances, human factor and bad luck, never a wrongly made decision.

Confronting Victor Hesse brought Steve to an edge, into a state which is burdened with risk of emotions taking over, so the shadow of dangerous, quickly getting out of hands encounter hangs there like a vicious threat.

It's exactly that aspect that has Catherine's heart pausing and then rushing every few minutes, whenever she lets her thoughts run to Steve. She's used to waiting hours for him to call her back, it's never been easy to call each other at the right time. Even here, though on the same island, she gave it a buffer period, figuring Steve will be busy with post-case reports and briefings. However busy with explaining and booking he was, she also knows it wouldn't be hard to find two minutes to simply inform her that he's all right.

Catherine figured as much on her own, the signal of rejected call resounding in her ear informed her of the fact he was alive enough to press the button. The first two calls with two hours interval, she made, could've been pushed away due to post-pursuit bureaucratic regulations, but the next few were a clear sign Steve's avoiding her.

This aversion waltz irritates her, maybe just as much as her previously persistent calling annoyed Steve, but they've been down that path before and it never brings anything good, only gnawing guilt and hurtful despair. Respecting each other's need for space is one thing, if he doesn't want to include her in this part, or talk to her about the events that took place, she won't push it, but excluding from the emotional turmoil is a step Catherine will not let him take.

However resilient they both are, any serious distress, disturbing the emotional and psychological balance, grazes at their vulnerabilities, quickly swallowing them and it's so hard to get up from it.

Damn it, Steve has always been the one who fought her stubbornness, forcing her out of the solid shell, not to the outside world, but into his arms, reminding her he's there for her to lean on. And, admittedly, sometimes it was an exhausting fight.

Why won't he let her do the same for him?

At the sudden sound of a key turning in the lock, Cath lifts her head up from the pile of papers with which she had tried to distract herself. The living room is cast in semi-darkness, only the light from the study, where she's seated, disperses the late evening gloom.

Steve enters the house slowly, as if afraid to make too much noise - part of him hopes Catherine is asleep, but of course she isn't. His gaze scans the surroundings, which he remembers to be more cluttered, when he was leaving. It's clear Cath has cleaned up, knowing her she did it only to keep her mind off him and her hands occupied with something other than reaching for the phone every half hour.

Finally, his eyes catch the sight of her by the dining table, clad in a top, his unbuttoned shirt and, this time her own shorts. Before he even opens his mouth to meekly greet her, she's up on her feet, striding towards him.

"Steve," his name falls out of her mouth in a soft, worried tone and as she reaches her hand to his face, Steve is reminded of those few wounds on his face, "Are you okay?"

The second her warm fingertips gently touch his cheek, Steve lets out a content sigh, his body instantly losing its heightened tension, willingly melting into that tenderness. It amazes him, how a simple gesture can have such an impact on him, making him wonder why he was an idiot who denied himself that comfort for so long. He knows there's an unwanted, feared part coming, but maybe it's worth it to, at least for a brief moment, feel her closeness and tenderness.

As her fingers move over the stitched cut on his forehead, Steve closes his eyes, involuntarily leaning closer, his hands rest on Catherine's waist. "I'm okay," he says, but a quiver in his voice betrays it's not entirely true.

Cath examines the visible bruises and cuts in silence, worry shining in her eyes as she scans his face and neck. Slowly, she trails her hands down his arms, onto his palms, for a second rubbing her thumbs over his bruised knuckles. Nodding to herself, she murmurs, "Good. That's good." Abruptly, she steps away, turning her back to him and marching to her previous spot by the table. Steve barely contains the displeased whimper at the loss of contact, the suppressed guilt quickly resurfacing with heavy bitterness as Cath gives him the cold shoulder.

He deserves that, he knows. Probably deserves a whole litany of scolding, but he kind of got it from Freddie already. Dropping his keys on the coffee table, he cautiously takes a step towards the dining room. He ponders for a moment, if it wouldn't be better to give it some time before approaching Catherine, but then again, knowing himself it's better to do it now.

And he definitely knows how to start.

Taking an encouraging breath, Steve goes to her, stopping by the chair opposite of her. "Catherine," he waits for her to look up at him, but she keeps her gaze focused on papers. Not that he expected it to go easy, but the lack of contact with her, even limited only to her eyes, is throwing him off balance. It makes him feel uneasy and lost.

"Cath, I'm sorry," his voice turns almost pleading, his heart clenching in fear that she might never look back at him, which - he knows - is an exaggerated fear, but it scares him at the moment more than anything else.

His heart stops, when the silence stretches for long seconds, then suddenly bursts in a rapid pace as Catherine looks up at him. The hurt in her eyes is clear, but it seems to soften at his sincere apology. She nods, holding his gaze for a moment, but then, without a word, gets back to the papers.

Clenching his hand on the chair's backrest, Steve contemplates which move is the right to take now - retreating, to leave her with the understandable anger, or to face her and possibly making things worse? Revoking Freddie's words from earlier, he braces himself and pulls the chair back, so he can sit on it. Just now the faint smell of food hits him, the scent of something rich, meaty, reminding him of Catherine's ragu. _Shit_, he closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face, when he realizes she probably had cooked some dinner for both of them.

"Can we talk?" he asks quietly, gauging her reaction. The feared silent treatment and disregard don't even flash on her face, as she stops scribbling and leans back in her chair, for the first time fully looking at him. She nods, but doesn't say a word, which Steve is not sure how to interpret. She's definitely not making it easier for him.

"I shot Hesse," Steve blurts out the information, which isn't the most crucial, but became the base for the decision about which he has to inform her.

Catherine's eyes widen, lips slightly parting. There's a twitch in her fingers, the instinct pulling her to reach out for Steve's hand and touch it, to provide the unspoken support. But she holds it back, anger won't disperse so easily. On some point, the news irks it even more, as she realizes how truly breaking the situation was and he still retreated from her, hiding in some small, dark corner of his chaos-cluttered mind.

She swallows hard, before asking in a trembling voice, not quite able to block all the concern and empathy she feels for Steve, "You shot him? He's dead?"

There's a dark flash in his eyes, which she can't fully recognize, whether it's the reflection of satisfaction, or the echo of emptiness that fulfilled vengeance brings.

Steve shakes his head, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table and hiding his face in his palms for a few seconds. In a nervous manner, he combs his fingers through his hair and rubs on his nape.

"No," he croaks out, "I mean, yes, I shot him," telling her all the details about the fight isn't important at the moment and she doesn't need to know how close he was to getting shot himself, "His body fell into the water, but they still haven't found it, so... The son of a bitch is probably alive."

For a second he closes his eyes, unable to look directly at Cath, but he forces his gaze to hold hers as he speaks, "That's why I've decided to stay here."

Though he feels like choking on the words, already sensing the tension rising, he manages to explain further, "As in stay here for longer, on Oahu. Lead the task force."

"You've _decided _to stay," Catherine repeats his words so slowly, almost emotionless. The tone of it and her blank expression scare Steve, reminding him of a few times, when such state pulled her deep into a worse spiral of outburst, caging her in a flashback of panic. It's not going to happen now, but a glimpse of that catatonic stupor has him frozen, awaiting the turmoil, which is hard to handle.

To his surprise, Cath continues in a livelier manner, her voice edging on irritation, "You're going to leave the Navy just like that?"

The question is a pile of layers, each accusing him of selfish reaction, like he's abandoning Catherine herself, their life, walking out of the future they were supposed to build.

"Catherine," he huffs, hanging his head low and rubbing on his temples. It's not easy for him either. He never considered going back to Hawaii full time, much less leading a police department of sorts. "I can't get back to duty, when my head is stuffed with unanswered questions and fears. Having Hesse, and whoever hired him, on the loose, is too much risk to Mary, to you. And I won't be able to do anything about it, if I'm somewhere on a black op. Shit, it would put my men at risk and I would never allow that!" his voice doesn't really rise, but the frustration and anger sharpen his tone, "I've made the most reasonable decision-"

"That's it," Cath interrupts him, her eyes flashing angrily, "_You _made the decision. And I'm not saying it shouldn't be yours to make, but you didn't include me in on that problem," so far, each of the steps that concerned the other one, even indirectly, they talked over together.

She's not sure, if she would try to persuade him, a part of her is always ready to support his decisions and follow his lead. But he took that away now, not giving her a chance, just shutting her out.

"Is there even a place for me in this new life you have planned for yourself?" her voice comes as a bitter hiss, a low blow, which, she knows, hurts him very much.

Catherine hates doing that to him, hates herself so easily falling into anger and guilt-tripping him, yet that small, vicious part of her is satisfied with the pain flashing in Steve's eyes, for it mirrors how hurt she is with his actions.

Steve tenses momentarily, his body going rigid, fingers ready to snap something. "Don't do that Catherine!" he barks out at her, leaning forward in that instinctive defensive manner, while she moves back, crossing her arms, "Do not make it out into something which you know is untrue."

"How would I know, if you don't include me?" driven by the adrenaline rushing along with ire through her body, Cath stands up abruptly, a move both to express the bubbling wrath, as well as in case she needs to run away.

She got good at talking over the years, relentless discussions and arguments don't scare her off, especially when it's with someone who means so much to her. This time, however, all the overwhelming difficulties accumulate at once, burdening her fragile being with great weight. Steve's announcement, even if she would support him given the circumstances, shatters the dreams and hopes they both had - at least she thought they both are in it. Ones that provided a feeling of safety and belonging. Having them ripped away throws Catherine off balance and turns the mere anger at her husband into a whirlwind of panic.

"What now, huh?" she paces around the room, "You're going to live here, lead a task force and I'm supposed to send you postcards from Coronado? Will you visit me every second weekend or something?"

"You're not stationed in Coronado yet," Steve snaps back at her, "It's not like we were about to take _that _step in the next months."

Catherine resists the urge to laugh bitterly as tears fill her eyes.

He doesn't know she has the papers ready. Had them completed, waiting to give to her commander, what she planned to do by the end of September. The moment, when she heard about John's death, she became even more sure of that move, wanting to start a life, which now Steve needs more than ever. And so does she. The plan to inform him that she's ready to retire from the Navy by the end of the year, crumbles now, because apparently they had driven straight into a cul-de-sac.

At the sight of tears shimmering in her eyes, Steve instantly regrets his approach. It's not like they never fought hard before, but he rarely got her to the state of helplessness, where her anger turns into sobs. He opens his mouth, ready to switch back to calm tone and patiently explain his point of view, but Catherine forestalls him.

"I can't do this right now," she croaks out, not even looking at him, "I don't know what to say to you... You made your decision, I guess now I have to think of mine."

"Cath-" he's standing up, ready to reach out for her, but is not even given a mere glance.

She's storming out of the room, muttering a harsh, "I need time alone," and leaves him with a rapidly growing guilt, that spreads and grips at him viciously. Steve knows this feeling right after an argument, the suffocating fear that he had screwed up big time. For him it always reaches the worst level of guilt, wounds sustained when he was growing up never fully healed, so each threat of losing someone he loves terrifies him. Catherine's silhouette disappearing in the darkness of the backyard, as he watches her through the French door, pulls on a string of panic, prompting him to run after her and plead for her not to abandon him. It's the scared boy within him, who tries to shout out over the stubborn adult man.

He tries to choke down the haunting insecurity, which adds to his already chaotic thoughts, as long minutes pass and turn into an hour. The taste of ragù Cath made, barely erases the bitterness of stress-invoked nausea that fills Steve's mouth. Forcing himself to eat at least a few bites, he keeps glancing through the window, trying to spot the figure in the garden. She's been walking down the shore, back and forth, finally resting on the sand, slipping her fingers through it.

Steve leaves the light in the dining room on, as after two hours of waiting he decides to hit the bed, no longer able to deny natural tiredness and soreness.

The warm spray of water in the shower only adds to the drowsiness slowly pulling him in, but the anticipation keeps his body strained, similar to the state of vigil, when he's on a mission and any minute of distraction can end up a catastrophe. He wants to wait for Cath, not fall asleep, afraid it might be read as his disregard toward the situation and her feelings. Actually, as his eyes settle on the clock on the bedside table, the past midnight hour alerts him and he's ready to go downstairs and into the backyard, just to make sure she's okay. Just when he's about to get up, the door downstairs open, then close, and he hears soft steps across the wooden floor.

Though with his eyes closed, clutching the pillow under his head, Steve listens intently to her every step, afraid at some point they might change the direction and aim for the main door. The rational part of him knows Catherine wouldn't leave him, not because of a fight, even so serious. The voice of insecurities and fear, however, becomes louder than logic, especially catching him at the vulnerable moment. Having just lost his father, facing the perpetrator - who at the same time is a man, after whom Steve has been chasing for years - left deep cuts within him, easing the growth of other fears.

The sound of the shower calms him down a bit, whispering reassurance that she's staying for the night. And if that night is survived, he knows they will have a calm conversation in the next days.

Which, unfortunately, won't be as easy as he needs them to. Organizing a funeral, facing people - he'd very much prefer another pursuit across the island, than that. He pushes away the image of entering a funeral home and picking out a casket, it too strongly reminds him of the same ordeal he had to go through, when he was fifteen.

Back then, his dad was with him...

Steve lets out a small sigh of relief, when his attention is drown to the person quietly stepping out of the bathroom. His heart flips happily, when he feels the covers moving and the mattress dipping. Even if her back stays turned to him for the whole night, he at least has her so close, maybe it will be easier to survive the night.

Unexpectedly, the warm body snuggles close. He can hear her sniffling, inhales the faint scent of his own shower gel lingering on her skin. Cath's hand hesitantly touches his arm, fingertips shaking, sliding up and across his chest, where she rests her palm atop his heart. Steve feels the tip of her nose pressing above the nape of his neck and the puffs of warm breath tickling his skin.

"Steve?" her voice is merely a whisper, hints of helpless sob quivering it.

In an instant he turns around, the need to see her face overcoming patience and his own uncertainty. Despite all of his fears, Catherine eagerly lets him embrace her, wrapping her own arm around him, clinging to him.

"I don't know what we'll do now," she admits hesitantly, her eyes still reddened from crying. They can't simply pretend the argument never happened, but she definitely doesn't want to be yelling at him anymore. He dropped the life-turning decision on her so suddenly, even if some part of her expected something similar to happen, that she felt panic slipping in, making her feel like she's suddenly left alone.

Tracing her fingers up his back, Cath hums at the feeling of his strong, solid body shuddering under her touch. She blinks away the tears that still prick at her eyes, "I just, ah, I hope we're doing it together. I need us to go through it together, Steve."

He lets out a shaky breath, then presses his lips to her forehead, kissing it softly. "I promise," he murmurs against her skin, "Together, Cath, no other way."


	9. Chapter 8

**McGarrett's House,**

**Oahu, Hawaii**

Burdened with a high level of strain, having accumulated stress and adrenaline in every molecule of his flexed muscles, Steve's body had shut down almost immediately, when he felt Catherine's body resting trustfully beside him last night. His brain had cut out any train of fears forming nightmares, putting him in the slumber of blank, thoughtless dreams, that finally allowed some dose of physical and psychological relaxation. Having the warm, soft body beside him, with the small hand resting over his belly, helped too, and now, as the ocean breeze sweeps through the ajar window, waking him with a crisp wave, Steve realizes the spot beside him is vacant.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, for a brief moment confused with the sight of his old bedroom. Realization dawns on him quickly and a flash of pain clenches his heart. It will take time, he knows, before his father's death stops or at least minimizes its gruesome impact.

Steve yawns fully and stretches, cringing slightly at the creaking sound the bed makes when he moves. The left side of the bed, where Catherine has slept, is still warm, though a familiar scent still lingers, taken over by the saltiness and flowery mixture coming from the garden. A content smile appears on his face, as he manages to stay calm, not for a second threatened by a panicked thought of Cath's disappearance. Over the years he has learned that she's not one who retreats easily and though he's scarred for life with abandonment issues, in this one person he should not place any doubt. Last evening's fight stirred the fear, but as the emotions settled down and Cath's closeness wasn't taken away from him, Steve's heart beats steadily, knowing she's somewhere in the house.

The perspective of picking up the sensitive topic once again, hopefully without yelling and tears this time, doesn't really motivate him to move.

The shadow of all other steps he has to make today also makes him want to crawl into a cave, or under the covers, far away from it all. He wouldn't mind staying in bed, resting and enjoying the time alone with his wife, but he can't do that, so with a displeased groan he pushes the covers aside and gets up.

There's a clatter coming from downstairs, signalling Catherine's whereabouts, and after a quick visit to the bathroom Steve musters all of his courage and heads into the kitchen.

It's quite small, with the furniture reminding him of his and Mary's toddler years; there's even a sign of his futile attempt at repainting one of the lower cabinets with crayons. He stops in the doorway, watching Cath moving around effortlessly, combining the simplest moves into some sort of graceful multitasking - chopping some fruit, pouring coffee, flipping the pancakes on the small pan. The image is so simple, but spreads a wave of an overwhelming affection through Steve's body, letting him once again feel embraced by the sense of belonging.

The last time he had a chance to spend a morning like that with her, they were in Coronado, enjoying a longer R&amp;R, eating a frittata miraculously made on the old stove and flipping through the interior decoration magazine, in search of the kitchen interior of their liking. Most of the displays were far above their budget, but at least they came to an understanding as to what they want. A flash of a happy memory makes Steve suddenly aware of the seriousness of his decision, of the impact it has on the life they are about to build. Catherine's thoughts became so attached to the vision of the future in Coronado and he had stomped over it, forgetting for a moment how much he wants it too.

The day before Joe White called him in to appoint him to the under-the-radar op in North Korea, Steve had spent his free time doodling the project of a swing for their back yard. At first it was just a simple sketch of a single one, but somehow it evolved into a set, with a double seat on the one side and a small swing with security on the right. During the flight to North Korea, when Freddie mentioned Kelly's pregnancy, Steve's mind had drifted to that small swing for a split second, shocking him with the sudden surge of longing and anticipation.

The decision to stay in Hawaii, lead the task force and further investigate the motives behind his father's death, wasn't prompted by avoidance or reluctance toward the future he wants to have with Cath.

Honestly, he acted on an impulse, focusing on the current situation and threats, not taking it into consideration as a long time plan. But as he watches Cath moving around the kitchen of his childhood home, Steve realizes she's right, which isn't anything new, and they need to work out the details, because basing all their meetings on improvisation has lasted too long. They both have been looking forward to settling down fully and he doesn't want to put it on hold longer than needed.

When Catherine turns around, placing the pot with fresh coffee on the table, Steve tenses instinctively, in fear she might be back being mad at him. Her soft, gentle smile, though not reaching her eyes fully, makes him relax and he takes a step forward.

"Good morning," Steve decides to restrain the playful mode, though a part of him really wants to flash a lopsided grin at her and tease her about the strawberry stains on her thighs, where she wiped her juice-covered fingers.

"Good morning," she replies, watchfully looking him up and down a few times, her eyes shimmering with worry, that slowly ceases as she takes in the relaxed features. He's rested and unharmed, aside the cut above his brow, busted lip and a few bruises, but she has seen him in worse condition.

Pushing the pot and two mugs towards him, Cath asks, "Can you take these out to the lanai? I thought we could eat and talk there. It's nice, besides..." she tilts her head to the side, letting her eyes scan his body once more, "The space and the ocean, I know it calms you down."

Her thoughtfulness, even now, when she shouldn't make it easier for him, tugs on Steve's heart. Catherine is the most selfless person he knows, though they both are ready to sacrifice themselves for others, she's the only one in his life, who always makes sure he's all right first, before tending to her own wounds. Not that she lets him be more important than herself, she spent long, hard months working on learning to take care of herself. And he is glad she does that, because the mere thought of Cath falling back into the dark pit of post-traumatic hell is scaring him.

"Good idea. Thank you," Steve nods, taking the items with him and heading through the dining room onto the lanai. The morning breeze hits him with a chill, sending tingles to the tips of his toes, but it quickly disperses as he stands in full light on the sunsoaked deck.

Catherine comes right behind him, holding a tray with plates, stack of pancakes and fruit. They sit down, both thankful for the comfortable silence the first few moves bring. Slowly sipping coffee, reaching for the food, each gesture of sharing and small smiles cast in the other's direction, but it only postpones the inevitable. A part of Steve wouldn't mind skipping the topic, not to avoid any form of argument, but to enjoy peace, as well hoping to provide Cath with much needed calm.

He peeks at her every few sips, catching her looking around the back yard with some sort of sad, longing glinting in her brown eyes. When Cath's gaze settles on the bench secluded in the bushes on the left, a shade of light pink spreads over her cheeks and Steve instantly realizes she's been thinking about the last time they were alone here. Only for a few hours, when his father had taken Mary to visit Mamo last year. A few hours, which Steve and Cath had used thoroughly... and then in a small panic, hurriedly searched the bushes, looking for Cath's bikini top.

"There are many memories here too," Catherine whispers, turning her head and looking at Steve. He stills with his lips at the brim of the coffee mug, as she reaches her hand and squeezes his forearm tenderly, "Sorry. I forgot that this is your home too, not only the one in Coronado."

Truthfully, she had been here only a couple of times, but the memories she has of it are one of the happiest and most important. It doesn't make the situation suddenly better, or easier, but it dawns on her that she was treating this place as completely strange and unknown, while it isn't so.

"Listen, Steve," she takes a big breath, "I am angry and it won't go away easily. Last night it was all fresh, you dumped it on me so suddenly, that I... I, myself, wasn't sure at what part I am most pissed. I guess yesterday it was at everything," her eyes cloud with the reminiscence of the disappointment from the previous evening, causing Steve to almost cringe at the clash of their gazes.

"But I've been thinking and I realized," Catherine sets her mug on the table and rubs her hands over her face, trying to keep control over the freshly stirred anger that still lingers within, "It's not the decision to stay here, but the fact you didn't include me in it, that hurt me. If not out of respect for me or our marriage, then at least to seek comfort, you should've talked to me!"

As her voice rises slightly, not really turning into a yell, more like a bitter sob, Steve flinches.

Instantly, he lowers his head in shame, because as much as he was offensive yesterday, he's not about to make the same mistake of dismissing her feelings now. "I know," he croaks out, "And I'm sorry. I really am sorry, Cath. I-" a resigned huff escapes his lips, his gaze scattering around in mild panic, before settling back on her face. "I withdrew," he admits, "It's fucked up. I haven't done it, well at least not to you, in years. But the whole situation, all of it at once, I kept telling myself I can't burden you with it anymore."

"Steve-"

"Yeah, I know," he interrupts her, shaking his head, "You're my wife, we're in this together. It's, uh, it is good to know I've got you, but sometimes... It wasn't on purpose, I just reacted as an individual, as the one who has to fix it all and protect everyone, you included. It's an-"

"Instinct," Catherine sighs, a hint of a new pain flashing in her eyes and she quickly averts her gaze, before Steve notices the imprint of conflicted thoughts, bothering her since the day she learned about Anton Hesse's death.

That deep need to protect each other from troubling emotions isn't something she should hold against Steve, especially experiencing similar trouble at the moment, wanting to spare him the emotional heaviness of her screwed reactions.

She will tell him, she promised herself she's going to do that, mostly because he's more than likely being the one to witness her possible downfall, if it all bursts inside and breaks her down. But for now she tries to postpone it, hold on a few days longer, because there's already too much burdening stuff going on.

For a few seconds they stay in silence, until Cath manages to shake herself from the side-tracked thoughts. "I got scared," her words strike Steve, making him tense as if in the face of actual danger she might be in. Noticing the rising fear in his eyes, she quickly explains, "Not about our safety, I know you're always doing everything you can to come back to me. The thought you don't really want to live in Coronado, scared me. I guess it was an instinct too," Catherine sighs, "I know it's not about that at all, especially with you not knowing about the papers."

"Papers?" confused, Steve frowns, trying to process her train of thoughts. He could protest immediately, because not even for a second has he had any doubts about living and growing old with her. Out of all the missions in his life, that one he was eager to jump into.

Catherine leans back in her chair, clutching the mug in her hands, as if to shield herself with it, "Yeah. You kind off forestalled me. I was sure I'm going to be the first to pull into reserves or fully leave the Navy. I've got all the paperwork ready, was thinking about submitting them to my CO by the end of September, so by the end of the year I would be off duty."

"_That's _why you said you'd be in Coronado and I here," Steve sighs, closing his eyes briefly and pinching the bridge of his nose, "Shit, Cath, why haven't you told me?"

"Would it change anything?" her shrug and slightly bitter tone irk Steve, but he bites his tongue before any stupid, harsh comeback spills. She has a right to be angry. "What's done is done, Steve. Now we have to deal with it and proceed from there."

'Wait," Steve quickly interrupts, moving his chair closer and reaching his hand to touch hers. The fact that she opens her palm without hesitation, willingly intertwining their fingers, provides a surge of comfort and courage. "Cath, just one more thing," he pleads, "Before we move to the agreements and planning, I just, umm, I need to say it again. I'm sorry."

He looks lost and the way he's holding her, as if expecting the possibility she might slap his hand away, tell Catherine what's hidden behind his words, what he doesn't know how to voice, but tries to.

"Okay, Steve," she puts her other hand on top of his, then lifts it and touches his cheek gently, "I forgive you." As the relief finally sparkles in his eyes and Steve visibly relaxes, she adds pointedly, "I might be mad for a few more days, though."

"Duly noted," he can't help the grin spreading on his lips, even more so, when she chuckles and combs her fingers through his hair, ruffling it.

The next part of the conversation isn't going to be easy either, Steve knows that, but with the assurance of his sincere apology being accepted and them being good despite the storm, he's ready to face the next obstacle. "Okay," Steve picks the conversation himself, "I honestly can't say how long I will stay here, Cath. Believe me, I want it all to be over and move to Coronado more than anything. But I can't promise it'll be soon. Hopefully, but being realistic..."

"It's gonna take some time," Catherine nods, "Speaking of being realistic, the chances of you sinking into it fully - the team, new job - are high. We both know you're not one to easily abandon a taken course. For now you're not thinking about it in the long term perspective, but I want you to keep it in mind."

A frown creases Steve's forehead, not fully understanding the meaning of her words. Maybe because of not thinking about it in the long term, as Cath just pointed out herself, he hadn't taken into consideration that staying here for months can make him not only get used to the new surroundings and work, but turn out to be a new path he finds himself on, not wanting to get back to the old life in the Navy.

"My transition to civilian," Cath looks at him pointedly, "I was ready a few weeks ago and I am not changing my decision." To be honest, seeing Steve writhing and struggling, caught in the web of the unanswered questions, she feels the need to settle down even more than before. Not only for his sake, but for her own mostly.

As much as she loves the Navy, the dream about building a life on the land, seeing each other every evening and waking up together, has been growing within her, the roots of it already wrapped around her heart.

"I am ready for the next step," she says adamantly, "I want stabilization, not being worried we might not see each other for months. Till now, Coronado has been the destination point, but if you're staying here..." Catherine glances toward the house. It's not the one with pale blue walls, new wooden floors and the honey-coloured curtains she had bought, and she knows it will take time before the bitter regret ceases, but if it means she and Steve are together, slowly building the life they want, she can get used to this place. Besides, she won't deny that Hawaii is beautiful.

"I'm not saying decide now, Steve," she looks back at him, "But we can't afford keeping two houses and we'll have to choose at some point. So if you feel like settling down here... we will need to talk about it."

Steve's gaze lingers on her. On an impulse he wants to reply, that they won't be staying here, even if it used to be his home when he was growing up, their future has been linked to Coronado.

The reason behind her words, however, sinks in. There's no denying that she's right and the probability of somehow growing roots back here is quite high, and definitely will increase with time, like she said. It's hard to determine if Cath is disappointed with the perspective, or just wants to be prepared, so Steve only nods, silently promising to keep her request in mind.

Now is not the time to lay out all the possible scenarios, dealing with the basics is hard enough as it is. Taking a deep breath, Steve redirects the course of the conversations to the core details.

"So, you're leaving the Navy," saying those words aloud makes him realize how shocked Freddie must have been, when Steve told him about his decision; how surreal it must have felt for Catherine, even though she partly expected that announcement sometime along the way. "Are you still going to stick with your September plan?" he asks, not sure how strongly his abrupt decision has influenced her plans.

"I think so," Cath takes a long sip of her coffee, "Knowing my CO, he's going to postpone it as much as he can, hoping I'm going to change my mind, so it's gonna take a few months, anyway. But I hope to become a civilian by the end of the year."

With a silent nod, he accepts the reply, the cogs in his brain processing the details, trying to form a plan. There's no point in dodging the truth, he's still going to be in Hawaii by that time. Even if he puts all of his efforts into tracking Hesse back and finding meanings behind all the elements inside of the red tool box, he still is going to work in a task force. It would be a miracle, if he even got one step closer to resolving this case by the end of the year.

"You can go to Coronado afterwards," Steve says, shifting his gaze to look at the display of turquoise and dark blue mixing in the ocean's sheet, "I could come for Christmas and New Year's." His voice becomes distant and Cath watches his profile intently, as he presses his lips tighter, a vein on his neck slightly protruding, like always when he is irritated with something.

Suddenly, Steve turns back to her, catching her gaze and holding it. "But I don't want you to be away," his eyes, as well his voice, are filled with emotion, edging on a desperate plead.

"You want me to stay here, in Hawaii," it's not a question, but a statement devoid of any surprise. The harsh accusation she threw at him last night had been evoked by anger and the need to hurt him, but that issue aside, Catherine knows how much he wants to be with her.

"Yes," he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in a sheepish grimace, "At least until we form some clear plan of proceeding."

Catherine deliberately stays silent for a second, before offering him a short nod and a hint of a smile, "Okay, agreed." Her smile widens slightly at the sight of relief softening Steve's blue eyes.

He doesn't fully relax, though, his fingers clench around the mug, turning the tips of his fingers red and his knuckles white. Cath knows him well to read it as a new disturbance entering his mind, a thought that probably has been waiting in line, right after the need to sort things between them, probing and nagging him.

She gives him a few minutes, before asking, "What is it, Steve? What's on your mind?"

Her words seem to reach him after a while, stirring him from whatever haze he's been trapped in. Steve blinks once, twice, and takes a long sip of the now cold coffee.

"Proceeding," he sighs, a flash of pain anew in his eyes. At Catherine's questioning gaze, he briefly closes his eyes, before croaking out, "The funeral."

In an instant it becomes clear, that he preferred even their argument to the reality of taking that step. The past days filled with adrenaline, forcing him to focus on the taken actions, provided a form of distraction, somehow easing the gruesome image of his father's dead body. Now there's no excuse to hide from it.

"My father is dead," Steve's throat clenches upon saying those words, "And I'm not sure I can arrange everything that needs to be done. Well… I probably can," he sighs, grimacing, "But I don't really want to."

The feeling of Catherine's fingers slowly tracing up his arm, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before trailing down to rest upon his palm, stirs him, but he quickly relaxes into that touch. "With that, I can help," she says softly, biting on her bottom lip in mild hesitation, "I already did actually. _But _I made it clear that some changes might be in order, after I talk to you." Needing to occupy her mind yesterday and being frustrated with the phone calls from the funeral house, as well the Governor's office, Cath had decided to make the arrangements. She didn't want to do it without Steve, knowing that however reluctant toward it he might be, he needs to go through with it, but she figured the basics can be organized and then details worked with him.

"The funeral will take place the day after tomorrow," she traces slow circles on his palm, "We can push it some more, but I think we need to face it, not postpone it. The Governor, or at least her assistant, took care of all the police service formalities. She promised to handle the Navy part too, because I was adamant that John gets the honours as the Navy veteran..."

Cath pauses as Steve quirks his brows, looking at her in mild surprise. "You, uh, you did all of that?" It's not much of a surprise that she would be actively participating in preparations, but he's more taken with the overwhelming relief that surges through his body at the awareness of the most feared part being taken care of.

"I figured you wouldn't mind," Cath offers a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed smile, which Steve reciprocates.

He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly and murmuring barely audible, "Thank you," into her skin.

As he places their joined hands back on the table, Catherine resumes talking. "I also thought you wouldn't thrilled with the prospect of having to deal with a mass of strange people afterwards, asking questions and forcing conversations, so I think hosting any after-ceremony should be skipped. We can have a small dinner here, with Joe and my parents. And your team, if you want to," she adds hesitantly, not sure if he wants them at the funeral at all.

"Your parents are coming?" though, logically, they're his in-laws, somehow it hasn't crossed his mind that they might appear at his father's funeral.

Squeezing his hand within hers, Cath replies, "Of course they are. I barely managed to keep my mother from coming here earlier to _take care of us_." They share a smile over that, happiness sparkling anew whenever they're reminded of the good changes in that department. However nice and caring Evelyn Rollins is, their relation with her hasn't always been the best. Catherine and her mum had difficulty communicating on any topic that somehow involved the Navy, the advent of Steve - a devoted Navy officer, worse, a SEAL - had spurted a long period of harsh silence and avoidance. Fortunately, the two women have slowly rebuilt their relationship and though occasionally some tension resurfaces, Evelyn has genuinely accepted Steve, making him a part of the family she strongly cares for.

He chuckles lightly, "As much as I love your mom's chicken broth, I think it's better we're not forced to eat it for a whole week." Two years ago, when he was briefly stationed in Aurora, he visited his in-laws on his short R&amp;R. Bad luck struck him, however, and he had spent it with a terrible flu, tucked in Catherine's old bed and fed the famous Rollins chicken broth three times a day. He had probably never blushed so hard before as he did when he was leaving and Evelyn had asked if he'd got warm socks and undies, so he doesn't fall sick again.

"Don't get your hopes up," Cath laughs at him, "She might cook it once she comes." The possibility is low, considering her parents will come only for two days and they plan on staying at the hotel, but she can't help the teasing tone that comes out, gladly noticing happy flickers in Steve's eyes.

She squeezes his hand once again and leans her temple on his shoulder, "We'll get through it, Steve. Together, I promise."

The words mirroring his own from last night are stronger, more sure than his own quivering voice and Steve realizes, not for the first time since he knows her, that the petite woman by his side is probably stronger than he ever was. At least she is for him. For them.

* * *

The dark half-moons under his eyes, that look even worse with the reddish line of suppressed tears, can't be hidden even in the shadow cast by his cap. He could wear just a suit, but not only hasn't he brought one with him, he also feels better in his dress blues. The part about being an officer and paying respect to the former veteran is reasonable and Steve could hide behind it. But to be honest, it's more for his own comfort. The uniform gives him a faint, but much welcomed sense of additional strength. Wearing it makes him instantly channel that inner reaction to keep himself straight and emotionless, which probably is the only reason why he's not falling to pieces.

Steve closes his eyes, holding his breath as warm fingers gently touch his cheek, fingertips brushing the lines under his eyes, as if trying to wipe away the tiredness.

"You ready?" Catherine asks softly, waiting for him to look at her.

He exhales slowly, opening his eyes and taking a long, attentive look at her. She's beautiful... and sad. A pained flash in her eyes doesn't go unnoticed. She's wearing that small, golden arrow necklace and a wedding band along with the engagement ring on her hand, the only jewellery adorning the simple black dress and cardigan. Steve's gaze stops on her hand, which is resting on his forearm, looking at the shimmering blueish stone of her engagement ring and the white gold line of the wedding band.

Suddenly his own fingers feel so bare, a faint itching pulsing above the fourth knuckle. "Give me a moment," he says and abruptly turns, climbing the stairs with heavy steps.

The small, velvet pouch, securely placed between his folded T-shirts, feels so light and soft in his big palm, almost weightless. It's tied with a thin, silver ribbon adorned with two small shells at the ends. Catherine has been using this bag to collect shells, going out with him early in the morning in Coronado, him heading for the water, while she sometimes chose to stay on the shore. Whenever he was going back to duty, he took this pouch, scented with the ocean and Cath's coconut lotion, and he kept his wedding ring in it.

As he unties the bag now and a white gold band rolls out onto his palm, along with a few sand grains, a ghost of a smile spreads on his lips. He can almost feel the warmth seeping through his hand, reminding him of Cath's sunkissed skin under his wet palm as he kept it on the small of her back on their way home from the beach.

Steve slips the ring on his finger, closing his eyes at the feeling of his heart fluttering, like that very first moment on their wedding day, when Cath had slipped it on his finger. Maybe it's because he wears it rarely, so each time he puts it on feels so new and overwhelming. Now, though, as his gaze lingers on that ribbon around his finger, he finds one good thing that staying in Hawaii brings - he can wear it every day.

Catherine has never questioned his motives, when it came to hiding the wedding band, but the gleam in her eyes as she traces her fingertips over it, before lifting his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles, shows she appreciates the gesture.

A delicate warmth seeps from her fingers through his hand, spreading small waves of calmness, maybe the only reason keeping Steve's heart at a steady rhythm. His thoughts scatter through flashes of images as they drive to the cemetery. Unable to focus on anything solid, he mindlessly watches the splatters of green and yellows outside the limo's window, every few minutes being pierced by a memory. The shards of his childhood come back to him, but the first impulse of happiness they bring is quickly crushed by the bitter realization of the darkness, that for years have been clouding over him and his family.

He tightens his grip on Catherine's hand instinctively, searching for the one certain source of support. Though he doesn't turn her way, nor do they speak, having her so close is anchoring.

Maybe it's the sole reason he goes through the funeral without flinching, focused on himself and partially on Cath, completely blocking the awareness of other people being there, half of them looking more at him than at the coffin. Or maybe he's just too tense, too reluctant toward any interactions today.

Steve looked around only once, when they arrived, involuntarily searching for his sister, though he knew she won't be coming. As much as he understands, he also needed her to be present and hoped she might've changed her mind. Instead of Mary, he noticed a few familiar faces, who at least were here to sincerely pay respect and say goodbye to his father. As the ceremony neared the end, Steve tensed even more, afraid some of the people might approach him.

Thankfully, Catherine is quick to react, maybe she even had come up with that plan before the funeral. As the crowd starts to disperse, she squeezes his hand and helps him up on his feet. With their arms linked, she steers them toward three people, who he can stand at the moment. Joe White and Captain Robert Rollins firmly shake his hand, offering sincere condolences, and he has no doubt they're being honest. Evelyn Rollins is less restrained, though shorter than Steve, she pulls him into a hug, tenderly caressing his back as he leans into her with a sigh. That woman, despite some rough patches they've been through, has become a mother-like figure to him.

He slowly becomes aware of the voices reaching his ears, the blur of everything finally starting to form clear reality, pulling out of the daze. Catherine's adamant insisting, when Joe tries to talk himself out of the dinner, evokes a speckle of smile that lifts the corners of Steve's mouth for a second. A part of him wouldn't mind if they were left alone completely, but at the same time he feels a sort of need to relish in the comfort having them brings, a faint reflection of a family he was looking for for so long.

Besides, their presence may be good not only for him, but most of all for Cath. She rarely sees her parents and the loss of John reminded of all the future possibilities of losing them.

Cath's hand touches his shoulder and he looks down at her, quickly following with his gaze the direction she nods at. A few meters away stand Kono and Chin, looking at him, but not making any move, as if to give him an opportunity to withdraw from interaction.

Their presence isn't really a surprise, he expected especially Chin to be here, still, it surges a wave of thankfulness through.

Gently tugging at Catherine's hand, signalling he wants her to go with him, they excuse themselves for a moment and approach the two. "Thank you for coming," Steve speaks quietly, clearing his throat in hope to regain full control over his voice.

"Of course," Chin nods, "John was not only a mentor, but most of all a friend. A good friend."

Steve's lips curl in a small, unsure smile. The conviction of the righteousness of his decision about having Chin in the task force, increases at the moment. He's a great asset, with all of his skills, experience, contacts and wisdom. But Steve discovers a new, probable cause behind his decision. Having Chin is like keeping a small shard of John's presence beside him.

His father was Chin's mentor, an influence that significantly imprinted on Kelly's approach and methods. Though, without a doubt, Chin has his individual perspective on things, based on strong respect and connection to the island, some of his acts remind Steve so much of John and he begins to realize how he needs his new teammate to accept him, treating it like the approval of his dad.

A tingling sensation on his wrist, where Cath traces soothing circles with her thumb, reminds Steve of his temporal lack of manners and he instantly shakes himself.

"Cath," he turns his head towards her, "Meet Kono Kalakaua and Chin Ho Kelly, my team." She barely contains the smile that dares to spread on her lips at the sound of pride in Steve's voice, visible also in his posture. Though he knows these two only for a few days, he already thinks of them highly, ready to defend them and trust them with his health.

Steve's thumb rubs at the band on Catherine's finger as he introduces her to them, emotions and softness so clear in his tone, "This is Catherine. My wife."

Expecting some form of shock, he's surprised to notice only Kono's eyes slightly widen, her gaze shifting from him to the woman beside him. Chin, however, flashes a knowing smile, his eyes sparkling joyfully.

"Aloha," he shakes Catherine's hand, "It's good to finally meet you." At the questioning look they both give him, he chuckles and explains, "John talked. First about some Navy girl, who wrapped his son around her finger, then about his amazing daughter-in-law. I recall him using the term _goddess_, when there were some coconut cookies involved."

Chin's smile broadens and his cousin joins him, as Catherine blushes, dropping her gaze to the ground, while Steve beams up with pride, his eyes getting misty. He knows his father had adored Cath, but hearing how he talked about her to other people makes his heart swell.

"Hey," he speaks up, a new shade filling his eyes, "Come to the dinner, would you?" He addresses Kono and Chin, looking at them almost pleadingly. Before they open their mouths to protest in a polite way, he says something that not only pierces through them, but surges a mixture of hope and warmth through Steve's veins. Catherine squeezes his hand tighter, he can feel her leaning into his side in a barely visible gesture of support as he says, "It's nothing fancy, just a family dinner. And you are my family now."

The words resound as big and meaningful, it seems they could be said only after getting to know them better, not after a few days spent on a very personal case. But what Steve knows better than many people, is the fact the team becomes a family not only for practical reasons of having to develop trust in each other. They become family, because they stand together despite differences, disagreements and deep scars.

And when the Rollinses and Joe leave the island, when Catherine goes away for those few months, Chin and Kono will be his only family here.


	10. Chapter 9

This chapter touches PTSD, therefore there might be some triggers. However it's a sort of an introduction to the core events, leading to Steve and Cath's direct encounter with Anton Hesse, which will be continued in the next chapter. And that one will be heavily triggering - I will add proper warnings!

Special thanks to wonderful Kit, who beta read and edited this chapter! You're wonderful!

* * *

**McGarrett's House,**

**Oahu, Hawaii,**

**September, 2010**

Spots of sun speckle her light skin, a few sparkles caught in the blueish stone on her ring finger defuse, casting shards of rainbow on the black keyboard.

It still draws her attention, though she tries to stay focused on the data displayed on the screen. Being used to the closed, artificially lit work spaces, the sudden change of environment is distracting , tempting her to look up every few minutes. She absorbs the view outside the window, entertaining her mind with the vast palette of Hawaii's vibrant colours. Watching the waves crashing on the shore entices her to go and bury her toes in the warm, wet sand; feel the water splash around her ankles.

Catherine could easily do that - soak up in the sun and wait for Steve to return home.

But she scolds herself for the mere thought of the happiness that fills her stomach, because it's too soon to be carefree and joyous.

There are moments when a smile, not evoked by Steve, but by that dangerously sly, inhuman thought, dares to spread on her lips. Seemingly without a cause, but Catherine knows the reason behind it and hates how good she feels with it.

The mourning after John is still fresh. How could it not be, if they said farewell only three days ago. Yet, the growing feeling of lightness has been filling her body in unexpected moments, causing her mind to go into a spin of chaotic thoughts. The ones that evoke mixed feelings, scaring her with the amplitude of the awful satisfaction, at the same time combining with the darker guilt, which she feels both for the emotions, as well for the early bloom of them.

Knowing how close to the brim it brings her - not the feelings themselves, but stuffing them deep, hiding from Steve and sometimes from herself too; Cath turns to one of the most effective solutions. Action.

She very much enjoys her leave, despite the tragic reason behind it. However, she can't afford to spend it like a silly holiday. Especially not with the prospect of leaving in a few weeks, leaving Steve with so many unanswered questions.

Investigating deeper keeps her focused, averting the thoughts from bursts of relief and celebration for something so gruesome.

Cath's gaze slides down to her hands, resting atop the laptop's keyboard. The lovely glint on her ring finger pierces through her with a sudden thought.

She had promised herself to talk to Steve. Out of respect for him, their marriage, out of the need to avoid hypocrisy, for she had yelled at him for keeping his own distress from her. Mostly, she wants to do it for herself, because nothing has helped her with the long process of struggling with trauma like his support.

Her therapist would scold her, reminding that Cath herself is the sole reason she managed to escape the dark pit. And she knows that. Each day she starts with a look in the mirror to thank and encourage herself, to keep that belief in her own capacity.

There's no denying, however, that Steve played a huge part in her recovery.

Even if it annoys her therapist, Cath stubbornly refuses to diminish his influence. They've found a way to balance the coping, treating each other's presence as significant, but not crucial. How could Cath say it was all her own doing, when she had had his soothing voice pulling her out of the catatonic stupor? When it was his hand brushing away sweaty hair out of her face, while she was bent over and vomiting, because the smell of raisins triggered horror? It was his hand on the small of her back, keeping her from crumbling into pieces, when loud bursts of laughter scared her.

Cath can't let herself fall back into that and the wicked relief she feels now is a thin line away from all the fears evoking again, especially without the body of Victor Hesse, meaning the son of a bitch is still alive.

That gets her moving. It's a flash of motivation, which switches her attention back to the screen and files she got in a not fully approved way. The findings, however, are worth the little breach of protocol. It's not much yet, but with the information on Jovan Etienne's history, a strong suspicion forms, building a quite possible scenario. She just can't link it to John. The final puzzles that may have an answer to that, are probably in the confine of the red tool box. Steve has mentioned it, but haven't shown her the items inside of it yet. If it's for the still lingering, stubborn attempt at protecting her, or that he needs more time before opening that box, risking finding something uncomfortable, Catherine respects that.

At the sound of the door opening, she looks up Her gaze scans Steve's body, finding his face flashing all kinds of tiredness. The case, she doesn't know the details, had a strong impact on Steve. A boy's father was kidnapped, probably facing a death threat. A troubling reflection of a nightmare Steve's been through himself recently. She can only hope it ended well Having to relive that sort of responsibility so soon after John's death would be a torment.

"Hey," Steve greets her, corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. He leans in to kiss her briefly, casting a glance at the screen of the computer.

Cath hums at the fruity flavour and scent lingering on his lips, "Hi yourself. Hmm, someone's been drinking a cranberry lemonade." She notices his little wince as he sits down next to her, though his wide grin quickly covers any signs of discomfort.

"A small cup," he chuckles, sitting on a chair and bending down to untie his boots. He can function in them for days, but if it's not necessary, he prefers being barefoot, especially around the house.

Steve looks up, when Cath snorts a laugh.

"Please. It's never a small cup of lemonade with you. You're like a little boy." The smile she flashes at him is gladly reciprocated, his eyes twinkling as she keeps on teasing him. "Slurping loudly and then needs to pee every few minutes," Cath says, bubbling in mirth when Steve pinches her calf.

Freeing his right foot from the boot and sock, he wiggles his toes, pressing the instep into the pleasantly cool floor. A smile remains on his lips, but fades as the memory of why he had that lemonade today fills his mind. Not taking his eyes off his foot, he says in a lower voice, "I took Evan, for a drink. His dad was giving a preliminary statement and needed to be patched up, so I thought I'd distract the kid for a moment."

There was no need for him to do so. An officer, who was at the scene, was taking care of the kid, who was also quite adamant about staying with his dad, for whichSteve couldn't blame him. At first he was about to ask Kono to check on Evan, as she has formed a bond with the boy, but something told him he should do it himself. Having just lost a father, it's sort of a relief to know that he helped save some other boy's dad.

"I'm glad it ended okay," Cath says softly, touching his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

Steve sighs only and forces his other boot down, stretching both of his legs and wiggling his free toes. For a long moment he stays silent and Cath doesn't hurry to fill the quiet void, which he appreciates.

There's a sudden rumbling coming from his stomach, evoking their chuckles. Steve stretches his whole body, arms reaching up, up, causing his shirt to roll, revealing a stripe of skin at his belly. He smirks as Catherine unabashedly looks at it, letting her gaze travel up to his face.

"Grilled salmon?" Steve asks, standing up.

"Mhm, sounds great," she smiles, tilting her head when he kisses the top of it.

She's a little surprised, when Steve stays beside her, his hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles. Not that she minds it, his warmth and smell are causing that nice feeling of safety She leans into him gladly.

Steve's next words, however, freeze her.

"And maybe you can tell me not only what you found out," he pauses with his lips against her temple, "But also what's been bothering you?"

It's true she reads him so easily, like an open book, but with the frequency of it happening they both somehow forget, that he knows her too. He has noticed the short flashes in her eyes, a ghost of a thought that terrifies her, but she pushed it aside to focus on the funeral and helping him. The mind tricked her attempts, pouring the small symptoms into the tiniest of gestures, which Steve quickly picked up on.

The tendency to get lost in joyous thoughts, only to abruptly pull herself out of them, is what caught his attention most.

Whenever Catherine lets her memories wander to some happy events, or if she's imagining something concerning them both, she never hides it, beaming up at him and often letting him in, so they can enjoy it together. Now she seems to be scolding herself for such thoughts and Steve finds it alarming.

Cath takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. There's this tempting, cowardly thought of retreating, pushing it aside. A tiny voice that whispers nasty things Steve might think of her, if she admits it. But she's learned to deal with it some time ago, not letting the anxiety cut her from (his) help.

"Okay," she agrees, her voice slightly quivering.

As Steve straightens and turns to leave to the kitchen, she catches his wrist. She traces her fingertips over the blue vein, then places a little kiss over it.

"Thank you," she murmurs, lips tickling his skin, but the tender, vulnerable gesture grips Steve's heart.

"You know what?" he tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "Come on. Move your butt, you're gonna help me make dinner."

Pulled by her hand, Catherine eagerly jumps up, a smile instantly forming on her lips as he keeps their fingers entwined, until she's fully on her feet. Taking him by surprise, Cath slips her slender fingers under the hem of his T-Shirt, tracing the path of inked skin low on his back. Standing on her tiptoes, she nuzzles his neck, chuckling with amusement at the sound of a small groan escaping Steve's lips.

"Not the kind of help I had in mind," Steve shakes his head, though his hands instinctively move down her arms and slide around her waist.

"Oh, my bad," mirthful tone vibrates against his shoulder, where she moved her lips, kissing along the fabric and down his arm, moist lips teasing his skin.

With a short, low growl, he leans down, nudging her cheek with his nose. When she looks up, he captures her mouth in a kiss. "Keep it up," he breathes between kisses, barely tearing his lips from hers, "And we won't make it to dinner."

Catherine bites on his lower lip, then nips along Steve's jaw. "Somehow," she mutters, tip of her tongue sneaking out to tease his lips, "We rarely... make it... to dinner..."

"And whose fault is that, huh?" Steve pulls back, quirking his eyebrow.

For a moment Cath seems to ponder, making a serious face and humming, before she announces, "Totally yours."

A loud, joyous squeal resounds, when with a mock-outraged, "Oh really?!" Steve hoists her up and throws over his shoulder.

He carries her to the kitchen, finally setting her down. "This time we'll make it to dinner," he pats her butt, before opening the fridge, "Can't promise we'll make it back to the bed afterwards, though," he grins at her.

Assigned with cutting tomatoes, Catherine stands by the kitchen table, skilfully preparing the ingredients, while Steve takes his place by the counter, filleting the fish. They work in mild silence for a while, listening to the rhythmical, light beat of the ocean and each other's breathing. There's a thought in Steve's head, however, which he tries to put in words and spell out, but a part of him is hesitant. While the proposition he has is quite harmless, the more he thinks about it, the more significance it seems to bear.

Barely a few days ago they had a huge argument, folloed by a serious conversation, in which Catherine has pointed out her suspicions about him growing roots here. While the idea in his mind came only from an invitation he got from Kono and Chin, to which he had acted in happy eagerness, the meaning behind it can be too much.

"You know," he peers at Catherine over his shoulder, "There's a football game this weekend. The team from my high school is playing. I though we could go?"

He can't promise that this won't have any strong meaning to him. Casual game, treated only like a day spent with his team, could reveal a hidden streak, which will appear the moment he finds himself on that stadium, watching the players in red jerseys on the field. The palette of memories it for sure will revoke could pull hard on his heart.

"I'd love to," Cath's response is quick and sure, without the slightest hint of uncertainty or cold. She looks up from the tomatoes and smiles at him, sparks igniting in her irises, "Maybe someone will break all your records."

The carefree tone and mischievous sparkles in brown eyes melt away all the cold worry, that wrapped around his heart.

It's quite overwhelming, the relief he feels upon Cath's easy reply, to the point where he wants to smack himself for doubting her. He had promised to take everything into consideration and apparently the vow itself is enough for her. She trusts him, doesn't approach each of his ideas with reluctance and anger. And maybe, a brief thought crosses his mind, this place is growing on her too.

Too soon to consider it, Steve knows. She probably agreed, because spending the time together, doing simple mundane things, is something they rarely have occasion to do. Steve can't help, the hope that ignites and blooms within, little speckles of happiness cruising in his veins.

He's about to speak up, tongue already tingling with playfulness, cheeky grin spreading on his face, but one look cast over his shoulder flushes it all down.

It's a split second, barely one breath after she voiced her response, but the change on Catherine's face is clear. Her gaze is glued to the wooden board on the kitchen table, the hand holding the knife begins to tremble, while her left hand is frozen mid gesture, red tomato juice dripping from her fingers.

Steve moves in an instant, crossing the small space between them in two long strides. There's been too many similar moments in their lives, when one of them lost all connection to reality, being pulled back into one of the nasty remnants. The panic doesn't rise yet, but an acidic worry creeps under his skin, bringing up all the known facts and foreseeable consequences.

They were in the middle of a carefree conversation, none of the well known triggers appeared, and yet she flashed back to the nightmare from a few years. Which, Steve always understood, was a much worse hell for her than for him.

A bitter taste fills his mouth as he quickly takes a paper towel and wipes Catherine's hand, then the board, getting rid of all the red traces, which her mind tricked her to recognize as blood.

"It's all gone now," Steve speaks quite firmly, while his touch stays tender and careful, "You're safe now, Cath."

He tries to keep calm, provide the feeling of safety, not pushing her further into worry and fear. But it's hard to stop his own guts from clenching and twisting with rising terror upon the strength of the flashback she has just experienced.

There was a time, when they both were like cracked eggs, the tiniest touch and wave threatening to shatter them into pieces. There hasn't been a day, _fuck,_ there hasn't been an hour, when some thought hadn't crawled back into mind, blocking out everything else, every shard of reality, or sanity. Nightmares coming at night were one thing, but the daylight has been so much worse. With all the people around going on with their lives, laughter echoing, sometimes rushing and accidentally pushing them aside. All those small things seemed to be too harsh, too heavy, so easily triggering the fear and in an instant blowing it to the size of a serious panic attack.

To be honest, while the flashes definitely had the strongest impact at the moment they appeared, they were never the hardest to cope with, even if it seemed so.

Posttraumatic stress disorder isn't all about nightmares and resurfacing memories. For Steve it's everything else that accompanies it. He wasn't able to focus, all the while having the awareness of being the leader, being responsible for his men. He tried, but he just couldn't control his mind at all times and the emotions were completely out of his grasp. Anhedonia spread through him like a poison, invoking nausea and irritation whenever he forced himself to activities he used to love before. He avoided swimming for four months, though at the same time he could spend hours in the shower, always feeling like dirt and blood are still clinging to his skin.

It was hard. _Hell_, it was traumatizing. And the therapy at first seemed to only worsen his state. His therapist described it as if he was fighting the therapy with a renewed strength, for he hadn't been able to fight when they faced Hesse and his men.

Still, Steve always thought all of his reactions and symptoms were so mild compared to Catherine's.

God, how many arguments they had over it in the beginning. Sometimes he wonders how they made it through with all the pushing and pulling. Maybe because it was a mere drop in the ocean of the time they've spent together, completely lost in all the moments, when each other's presence brought safety and peace. Silent lunches in the mess hall, Cath's soft, reassuring voice reminding him not to blame himself. The short, but much needed phone calls, when she's been relocated. Then the hot, endless nights in Coronado, almost a year later, when they stumbled upon each other unexpectedly. It was the first time he felt truly rested, when waking up next to her.

He learned her symptoms, her triggers, which weren't that similar to his, though it might seem they would. The smell of raisins never concerned him, but he figured he was too out of it back then, to register all the details. Catherine was in full awareness and everything impacted her so much stronger.

The knife falls to the floor the moment Cath looks up at Steve, her other hand clasped between his. She blinks rapidly as the quivering spreads through her body. "I'm sorry, Steve," her voice is shaky and high pitched, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," Steve's voice softens slightly, still holding the solid firmness, which is aimed to reach through the haze and ground her, "Remember, we promised not to be sorry for what's not in our control?"

Her brown eyes are clouded, pupils wide, but she slowly nods, trying to focus her gaze on Steve's face and not look around in panic. The flashback itself doesn't scare her, but the fact it came so suddenly after months of not having any. Catherine suspects what might be the cause, all the suppressed emotions and the freshness of death she never thought would make her so... at peace.

"It's Hesse," she whimpers, gaze dropping down, unable to face Steve while she admits to these awful, almost inhuman feelings.

Steve doesn't force her to look at him, but reaches for her other hand and holds it firmly, as if to prevent her from running away. His grip tightens on her trembling fingers, when the next words fall from her lips, quiet and soaked with guilt.

"Anton Hesse is dead and I am so happy about it."

* * *

**Environs of Salhani, Lebanon,**  
**May, 2004**

The blast was sudden, nothing to warn right before it. No one acted suspiciously, there was no sound betraying an upcoming blow. The rustling of search and casual exchange of observations had been interrupted by the earpiercing noise, followed by a cascade of sounds and dust. Clatter, screams, shooting, it all mixed in a haze of headcrushing racket.

Or maybe it wasn't the sounds that filled Catherine's head with pain, but the bruises and cuts, rocks pressing into her skull, cutting her skin open.

Whatever the cause is, it increases the nausea and dizziness, which worsens with every passing second.

Catherine curls up on her side, but the movement doesn't help much, only makes her realize her whole body is sore. She hasn't opened her eyes and yet everything seems to spin. There's a feeling of endless rolling tormenting her head. Insides her stomach bubbles and threatens to come out, the bitter acidic aftertaste filling her throat and mouth.

Slowly, she rolls onto her stomach and braces herself on her hands. Tiny rocks and shards cut into her skin, prickling uncomfortably, but she grits her teeth and climbs on all fours.

Suddenly she stops, when the bitterness in her mouth intensifies and a choking burning pushes through her throat. She feels like vomiting, but nothing comes out, only some of her saliva. Keeping the same stance, Catherine waits and prays for the spinning to subside, so she can open her eyes. The noises now seem to be coming from so far away and she frowns, unable to recognize any voices. There's only the sound of a gunfight, but it also comes from far off.

Finally, she forces her eyes open and the sandy surface spins before her eyes, causing her body to lose its balance, the nausea increasing once again.

Cath, however, grits her teeth and taking deep breaths, tries to regain the control over her body. The few wet spots on the rocks right under her head are stained with pink, which she instantly recognizes as blood, but the amount of it in her spit suggests it's nothing internal. Probably only from the cuts on her lips. Licking them proves her right, as the stinging tingles her mouth. She can also feel a thin trickle on the side of her head, a few drops of blood dripping down her jaw.

It seems her whole body refuses to cooperate as she stands up, all wobbly, unbalanced. She has to close her eyes for a moment, when she fully straightens. Fortunately, when she opens them again, the surroundings aren't spinning so much anymore.

They do confuse her, though.

Catherine is facing a wide road, the sandy curve disappearing between rocky slopes. On her left is a high, grey wall of stone that seems to reach the sky, the sun brightly shining at the top. That's where the echo of shooting is coming from, momentarily reminding her of the people out there, the SEAL team she came with. As the spinning slowly ceases, she begins to put the pieces together.

Looking up and squinting her eyes, she tries, or hopes to see anything that's happening. At least to see some silhouettes.

That's where she fell from. Though she doesn't remember standing so close to the edge, but maybe the blast has been so strong it blew her further away and she rolled down the steep slope. A good thirty, maybe forty meters down.

Lieutenant McGarrett is going to yell, she expects it. After all, he didn't want Catherine to go with them in the first place, but she has been stubborn and listed all the logical reasons for why an Intel Ensign should tag along. Especially since this location had been reported abandoned for over a year now.

Well, not so abandoned after all, it appears.

For the SEAL leader to be able to let his frustration out on her, she needs to get back up there. Calling out for anyone would be the most stupid thing to do, considering she has no certainty who's up there. Instead of one of the American soldiers, she could drew the attention of the enemy and end up with a series of bullets in her body.

Mustering all her strength, she tries to climb up. Each movement causes a small hiss of pain, the tumble down the slope must've bruised her really hard. Gripping her scratched fingers on the rocky surface, she pulls her body up. It takes a lot of effort, her balance still shaky, muscles sore and as she stretches to reach to a higher rock shelf, pain surges through her left side, eliciting a strangled cry. _Busted ribs_, she concludes and grimaces, lowering herself slightly.

The higher she climbs, the harder it becomes, less surface to hold on to.

A curved rock, seemingly a solid part of the slope, which she uses as her next leverage, suddenly cracks and falls off. Catherine loses her grip and falls down rapidly, once again scraping her body on the grit.

Her hands are now scraped hard, light skin covering in tiny droplets of blood, which quickly cover her palm fully. The stinging from the cuts increases, yanking on the neurons with growing pain, any movement of her fingers causes a surge of twinge.

Cath glances up at the inclined wall, for a long moment calculating the chances of making it up, but it honestly doesn't seem possible. Especially now with her bloodied hands. At best, it would drain her of all her energy.

There has to be a way around. When they drove up there, she had noticed two other roads curving around the slope and the road ahead of her now has to be one of the tracks. Taking another look around, observing the slopes on the other side, she checks if there's anything suspicious. A glint that could betray a sniper, some shady movement. But there's nothing.

Keeping close to the left side, Catherine marches on, trying to set up a quick pace, but she has to slow down when the dizziness reappears.

The instinct to push herself, to force the faster tempo, or try climbing up again, rises the moment she realizes the sounds of shooting have ceased. There's no one yelling for her, no sound of engine, like suddenly everyone and everything had disappeared. Even if they evacuated, unable to find her, maybe classifying her as a casualty of the blast, she can't stop or turn around. Now she has to make it all the way back to the base, or to the nearest village.

It does seem suspicious, however, her brain providing her with the possibilities and scenarios she doesn't want to think of.

She keeps telling herself it's impossible for all of the SEALs are dead. The whole ordeal didn't seem like an ambush, more like accidental encounter with someone, who didn't expect them at the scene.

On the other hand, Catherine has never been out in the field. All the training she went through couldn't fully prepare her for an encounter of that sorts. Maybe if she hadn't fallen down, the training and instinct would kick in, she'd have taken out her gun and followed the lead. But she's kind of lost now, relying only on her common sense and survival skills.

And when she comes to a sudden stop, it becomes clear she will have to change the approach and adjust.

The road is blocked by a stacked wall of rubble. Big rocks and chunks, clearly a remnant of a huge explosion. Something tells her it was done purposely, cutting off one of the approachable roads. Quite smart, considering that Hesse's little base is protected by steep slopes on this side, which are very heard to climb. This means less unexpected attacks.

Catherine freezes for a second and then drops down, hiding behind a curve in the rock wall.

She reaches her bloody hand for the gun holstered on her thigh. It hurts like hell to clench the fingers around the metal and she presses her lips hard, almost biting them, to stop the cry of pain. The necessity is stronger than discomfort, though, and she pulls the gun closer, peeking at the sight that caused her to react.

There's someone hunched by the rocks. Grey shirt and dark pants, his hand on the rifle. But as Catherine holds her breath and watches him intently, he doesn't move an inch. Doesn't even take a breath.

Slowly, she reaches one hand to grab the small rock nearby and tosses it across the road, all the while having her gun pointed at the man. Awaiting his reaction. But he stays still. Deadly still.

Taking a deep, encouraging breath, she stands up and carefully steps closer. Rearranging the grip on the gun, because the blood on her hands makes it all slippery and unsteady, she flexes all her muscles to keep her arms from shaking. Trying to steady her breathing, Cath takes another careful step, avoids making additional noise. Though it feels like the echo of her pounding heart is resonating in the air with each loud thump.

With each step it becomes clearer the man is dead, but she can't afford being careless at the moment, having no back up. It might as well be another trap. The first thing she does, when she reaches the body, is to kick his leg, prepared for any sudden movement. But the body lays motionless, even as she does it for a second time. Quickly, she grabs the rifle and yanks it away, the man's fingers slipping off it without any resistance. Carefully leaning over him, gun in one hand still pointed at him, she checks his pulse.

Dead.

Catherine secures the rifle on her shoulder, then rolls the body over onto his back, to check for any other items she might find on him. What strikes her the moment she looks at his face is his ethnicity. He's definitely not Lebanese. A Caucasian male in his early thirties, with tattoos on his neck. It becomes clear, the encounter wasn't with a Hezzbollah's cell, but with Hesse's men. She's about to reach into the pocket of his vest, when a raspy voice calls out to her suddenly.

"Drop your weapon!" perfect American accent, with a soft hint of specific drawl, resounds in a harsh tone, then repeats the command in Arabic.

In an instant, she turns around, gun now firmly held in both hands as she aims at the source of the voice. He's on the other side of the road, sliding down the rocky barricade, BDUs covered in dirt and dark blotches, but it's still quite easy to recognize the pattern and familiar equipment. It takes a second for Catherine to make his face out, the lines of his jaw and cheeks, now stained with blood and dirt, blue eyes looking at her sharply.

The recognition falls at her with an abrupt wave of relief.

"Lieutenant McGarrett," she breathes out, tremors filling her body once again, though this time provoked by the sudden burst of security. Which is a bit naive, the logic tells her, as they are both apparently wounded and there's no sign of the team coming to get them.

Foolishly maybe, Catherine lowers her arms, the gun almost slipping out of her grasp. Her heart thumps louder, harder, when McGarrett doesn't do the same, still aiming at her.

Cath finally notices that he is squinting his eyes, looking at her suspiciously, meaning he hasn't recognized her at first. After long seconds, he groans and lowers his weapon, at the same time leaning his head back on the rocks.

"Jesus, Rollins," he cusses, but she's not sure if it's at her, or more at himself. The fact he had difficulty recognizing her, means either she's more bruised than anticipated, or he's the one seriously damaged.

Catherine takes quick, small steps towards him, hovering over his helplessly slumped body. His head lolls to the side, eyes on her, watching with growing curiosity.

"Sir," when she addresses him, he looks clearly surprised, "You're wounded." Cath's gaze is focused on his stretched out leg, upper thigh soaked with blood.

"Yeah," Steve groans, clenching his eyes shut, when Catherine drops to her knees, the sun blocked by her silhouette shining directly on his face, "Got shot. Just a scratch."

"Doesn't seem like a scratch," Catherine frowns and shoots him a pointed look when she assesses his wound. After a moment, she realizes her slip and instantly apologizes, "Uh, sorry Sir. I meant, um, Sir, I can take a look at it."

"It's fine, Rollins," Steve sits up slightly, though it feels like using so much energy in that one simple move. "I can take care of it, but the aid kit is somewhere up there," he motions to the high steep, "So we have to improvise."

In any other circumstances he'd have a blast, improvising and adjusting always provided a surge of fun. He likes creativity, it always came to him quite easily. But the current situation is far from one to enjoy, especially feeling the exhaustion and pain straining at his neurons.

He shifts his clouded gaze back at Rollins, taking in her appearance, or more like assessing her equipment. "Give me your scarf," Steve orders and Cath doesn't even hesitate a second, quickly yanking at the thin layer of fabric she took to cover her month in the sandy, dry air.

"Fortunately for us," Steve mutters, while rolling the scarf and twisting it high around his thigh, "It's past noon, so it should become more bearable. Then again," he groans, tying a tight knot, "We should find a shelter, before it gets dark. I doubt we can make it to the base before dusk."

Catherine can't help the quiet, slightly quivering question that slips out of her mouth, "Sir? What about the team?"

A lump forms in her throat and she swallows heavily, when a shadow comes across McGarrett's face. His eyes darken, a hard, dangerous glint piercing through blue irises. "Don't know," he rasps out, "But I will find them. Each and every one."

She only nods, not voicing all the questions about how he intends to find them. Does he think they're all alive? Will they climb up that steep over and over, until they reach it? A sense of duty and loyalty she understands very well, she's ready herself to go to the furthest to help find them, but Cath realizes that for Lieutenant McGarrett it's more. A higher stake, proded by haunting guilt, because they are his friends, his brothers and he is responsible for them. There's no option of not getting them back.

Instead, Cath asks about another problem they're facing, "Sir, if I may ask, where's your equipment?"

There's only one service gun beside him, no trace of the rifle all of the SEALs were equipped with. Neither his sat phone, nor the vest are on him. A suspicion grows in her, but she'd rather not even imagine the possibility, which might incline the whereabouts of the rest of the team.

"Got stripped of it," Steve huffs, annoyance and disappointment clear in his voice, "The blast knocked me unconscious. When I woke up, I guess minutes later, I was in the back of a rusty car. My rifle gone, the vest too. The asshole was trying to take the thigh holster off, when I kicked him and sent him flying through the door of a moving car." He takes a breath, trying to lengthen the intakes of air, "Struggled with the other one, the driver got shot while we were fighting for the gun. Car totalled on the side... I crawled out of it, before it burst in flames. Went after that one," he points to the dead man on the other side, "He managed to hit my leg, before I put him down."

The way he describes the situation is too chaotic for Catherine's liking, but she doesn't voice her worries about his slipping consciousness. He'd have to deal with a full detailed report after they reach the base. For now it's less important how he lost his equipment, but more how they're going to make it with the few items they got.

"How'd you get here?" Steve eyes her up and down. It's a small relief to know that at least one of his people is alive and unharmed. Well, at least not severely harmed. He notices her bloodied hands, now probably even more sore, after holding the gun.

"The blast knocked me down the slope."

She shrugs, as Steve winces, glancing at the hard, steep wall and the chain of rocks at the bottom, which could easily kill, if your head bumped into them on an impact.

After a moment of silence, McGarrett takes a deep breath and stands up. It doesn't go unnoticed, that he weavers slightly, closing his eyes for a second. Catherine doesn't say a thing, knowing that feeling too well and understanding the need to push worry aside, for they have to block any discomfort to make it to their destination.

"We could climb it," Steve motions the barricade of rocks, "But the safer road for now is down there."

Catherine nods and hands him the stolen rifle, even in his state he's not only a better shooter, but her hands need some time to heal. They head down the road, keeping to the side, where rocks cast a faint shadow. Their pace is steady, but slow and Cath can't help but notice the discomfort Steve must feel with each step. She's not a surgeon, but his wound is more than a graze.

Neither of them talks. Though it could help the tension and fear, it would use more energy and cause distractions, which they can't afford. Every step of the way, they observe the surroundings and listen to any sounds that might indicate oncoming danger. A part of it is kept in hope to stumble upon someone from their unit, to find themselves in a known group and regain the sense of safety.

With time, Catherine's gaze keeps flicking towards the Lieutenant more and more frequently. The pace of his steps has decreased, the limping more obvious, as well the grimace on his face, which he tries to suppress. It's not like the ache isn't numbing Cath, she tries to grit her teeth and not wince whenever the pain surges through. Palms only throb, but the rest hurts whenever she takes a deeper breath. One of her ribs is probably fractured, but hopefully she could avoid the cracked bone tearing her lung.

Though the rational part demands being clear about wounds, for it's stupidto hide serious injuries or alarming signs from your team, especially in the middle of nowhere. While hiding it spares the unnecessary drama, it puts everyone at risk, because if someone suddenly collapses, the rest isn't prepared for it and it puts everyone in danger.

There's only two of them now and while Catherine has seen his wound, she's sure McGarrett hadn't told her everything about his state. Whatever happened in that car, or before he got dragged into it, had to make an imprint on his physical state. Which, obviously, he tries to overcome.

And she didn't tell him anything either. _Stupid_, she screams at herself, but keeps her mouth shut, unable to voice it. Part of her simply wants to be tough, they're in enough trouble now, no need to burden the leader with a few cracked ribs. Especially when he marches with a hole in his leg. Knowledge about an injury changes the approach. She should inform him there's a possibility she won't be able to perform all of the tasks, instead of endangering them both.

She's about to open her mouth and admit to it, when McGarrett's hand grabs her by the elbow, stopping their march. Cath looks at him startled, then follows his gaze. They slowly descend the far left side of the valley to find a small house on the brim of a sunburnt forest.

It's little more than a shack, with a well a few yards away and a small animal hopping in the shadow by the west side of the building. No vehicles nearby, no movement or suspicious activity can be spotted.

McGarrett's grip on Catherine's arm tightens, but not because of the tension or alert. With the sweat drizzling his face and slight wave in his stance, she instantly understands he's trying to avoid falling down on the ground. The shack can be too dangerous to be in, especially if a family lives there, but they both need a little rest and water.

On Steve's sign, they squat down behind the rocks on the opposite side, scanning the surroundings, looking for any oncoming threats. For long minutes, stretching into half an hour, nothing happens. Only one person leaves the house. Soon after, another one follows.

They both tense, awaiting the appearance of a man, or worse - men, armed and posing a threat. Time passes as Steve and Cath keep still, the only movement being shivers, whenever a trickle of sweat rolls down their backs. Nothing happens, though. Two females, one clearly younger than the other, get the water from the well. No one else emerges from the house.

"We have to move," Steve decides with a resigned huff, too well aware of the fact that their approach won't be the one they were trained to. And the valley doesn't provide the kind of terrain they could sneak through unnoticed. It's going to be the two of them, wounded, almost unarmed, versus the open, unknown plain.

Mustering all the shards of strength left, trying to push through the haze that heavily clouds not only his thoughts, but also his sight, Steve leads the way. It's against all he's been trained, but having Rollins beside him is the only way for them to make it. For him to make it, without falling down. The blood loss weakens him, but he's been injured before and still managed to get through. This time, however, there's another change in his body, one that increases rapidly, scaring Steve. He's got a fever and it's worse than the wound in his leg. Steve always reacted badly to having a fever, even as a kid.

So he makes sure the distance between him and Rollins isn't big, providing himself the assurance of leaning on her, if needed, and following her gaze, which right now perceives more than his blurry vision.

The women freeze in fear when they approach. The older shields the teenager with her body, both curled as if expecting to be pierced by bullets.

The sound of Cath's cracked voice gets to Steve and he can make out some of the broken sentences she forms. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he speaks up, unsure of how strong his voice sounds, but definitely better at speaking Lebanese Arabic. Their state doesn't gain trust, for sure. Two wounded soldiers in the middle of nowhere, uniforms covered in dirt and blood, none of the glorified American dream atributes. The time seems to drag on forever, Steve sways on his feet, Catherine's pleading voice resounding over and over again.

And suddenly he feels a gentle push. Opening his eyes, he notices the silhouettes are moving. It's Rollins, who nudges him forward, her fingers gently grasping his arm as she leads him to the small house, following the women.

She makes him sit on something, low and not really soft. The movement causes him to grit his teeth, to stop the groan of pain, as his leg throbs, when he stretches it.

The cold, fresh splash of water hits his face and he groans in relief, nearly leaning into the unexpected touch of soft fingers at his cheek. It's brief, lasts merely a second, but he can't say he doesn't like it.

The second splash of water awakens him somewhat and Steve's able to reach for the tin basin filled with liquid and splash more of it on his face, rubbing away the tiredness, blood and heat. Then his lips touch the cup he's given and he gulps it all down.

While filling the cup with more water, Steve shifts his gaze to look at Rollins. She's standing before him, all tense and guarded, as if she's the one protecting him from anything that might suddenly attack. A frown creases his forehead, when he notices her posture. Catherine keeps her left hand to the side, holding the cup only in the right one.

With a sigh, Steve downs the rest of the water, never tearing his clouded eyes from her, when he asks a moment later, "Arm or ribs?"

"It's no-" she starts, but he interrupts her firmly.

"Arms or ribs?" it comes out not only of concern, because in his state and in those circumstances there's not much he could do to help her out anyway, but he needs to know her injuries to take into consideration when deciding about their next move. Fractured ribs mean she's got limited moves overall and can't press into surfaces, risking the lung puncturing. If it's the arm, it limits her gun or knife operating, but nothing more.

Casting her gaze downwards in mild embarrassment, Catherine opens her mouth to answer him, this time honestly, when a sudden commotion ensues.

The girl barges in, sputters quick words at them, which Catherine doesn't fully understand, but judging by how quickly Steve jumps up, almost screaming from the pain shooting through his leg, she understands it's bad.

The doors are quickly closed and they are ushered to the other room. For a moment they watch in confusion as the girl is struggling with the tall, open cabinet, stacked with small jars and tin cans, but when the faint sound of engines reaches them, they understand instantly.

Someone's coming.

Pushing aside the wooden furniture reveals a small, hidden chamber, one that can barely fit two people their size.

Steve peeks through the window, cursing at the cloud of dust in the distance, surrounding the oncoming column of vehicles. With only one rifle, two guns and considering their wounds, there's no way they can openly defend themselves and two civilians. They can count only on luck at the moment and prayers.

Complete darkness falls, when the girl pushes the cabinet back to its place, closing Steve and Catherine inside the small space, filled with stuffy, moldy air and their sweat.

Cath's heart rate increases, it seems to be thumping so loud, that she presses a hand over her chest, hoping to muffle the sound as if it can be heard not only by her. A quick glance at Steve, to check his demeanor, is futile. She can only make out the lines of his profile in the darkness. Soft gasp bubbles out on her lips, when his hand touches hers. Not accidentally, it appears, because he holds her trembling fingers within his.

They can barely make out the faint sounds of conversation outside the hut, lead by the older woman and whomever came in those cars. Other than that, it's utter silence.

Until suddenly the door bursts open...


End file.
